
LI BRARY OF COiXGRK SS 

Sd'' 


JUNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 






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You do not intend to be a fanner, I conclude.*’ 

p. 32. 



Agnes Wilbue; 

OB, 


A DAUGHTER’S INFLUENCE. 



PHILADELPHIA : 

J. C. GARRIGUES & CO., 

No. 148 SOUTH FOURTH STREET. 

1867 . 


Kntered Hccording to Act of CongreBs, in the year 1866, by 
J. C. GAURIGUES & CO., 

In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court for the Eastern District 
of Pennsylvania. 


<^StCOTT & THOAfs, 

Stereotype 
/> . 

- ' ^ h A P K L P 



Jas. R. Rodgera, Pr. 
52 & 64 N. 6tb St. 


CONTENTS. 


I. 

VUE CONS ULT ATION 7 

II. 

THE SURPRISE 16 

III. 

A TALK WITH COUSIN WALTER 27 

IV. 

THE FAMILY BIBLE CONSULTED 36 

V. 

AUNT MARTHA 43 

3 


4 


coN■TE:N^:'s, 


VI. 

TIIK BUNCH OF WILD FLOWERS 63 

VII. 

A CHAPTER OF THE PAST 60 

VIII. 

MISS MARY 69 

IX. 

A WINTER IN THE CITY V9 

X. 

A WELCOME INVITATION 90 

XI. 

THE GREAT HELPER 101 

XII. 


PRESENT DUTIES 


112 


OOT^TENTS. 5 

XIII. 

THE FIRST SORROW 122 

XIV. 

WORK FOR JESUS 134 

0 

9 

XV. 

A QUESTION OF DUTY 146 

XVI. 

THE NEW HOME 157 

XVII. 

FIRST ATTEMPTS 167 

XVIII. 

5IANNA — 176 

XIX. 

NEW FRIENDS 187 

1 * 


6 


CONTEISTTS- 


XX. 

FIRST FRUITS 199 

XXI. 

A TESTIMONY FOR JESUS 207 

XXII. 

A FAMILY ALTAR ERECTED 215 

XXIII. 

NEW DUTIES AND ENCOURAGEMENTS 227 

XXIV. 

A NEW SPHERE..... 241 


Agnes Wilbur 


I. 

THE CONSUETATIOK. 

“TT AVE you called upon my daughter 
ii to-day?” inquired Mr. Wilbur, as he 
stepped into the offiee of his family physician, 
on the way home from Ids place of business. 

“ I have,” was the reply. 

“What do you think of Agnes? I am 
anxious to learn your opinion.” 

“ I think a change of air and scene would 
do more for her than medicine.” 

“I intend taking my family to Newport 
the latter part of July. I do not know that 
I can make arrangements to go sooner.” 


AGNES -WIEBUR; OR, 


“ That may benefit her, but I should prefer 
a change of a different kind. If your daughter 
could spend a few weeks in some quiet family 
in the country, where she would enjoy herself, 
I think it would be preferable to the excite- 
ment of a watering-place, and might prove of 
great advantage to her.” 

At the dinner table that day Mr. Wilbur 
mentioned the advice given by Dr. Allen. 

“ What think you of a visit to your Aunt 
Carry Fs?” he said, addressing his daughter 
Agnes. 

“ I am glad it is not I who am to be sent 
there. I should die of the blues in a week, 
in that out-of-the-way-place,” said Caroline, 
]\Ir. Wilbur’s eldest daughter, about two years 
older than Agnes. 

“ Why will you use such extravagant lan- 
guage, Carrie?” said her father. “I don’t 
think the blues often prove fatal in a week. 
But you are not the one called upon for a 
decision. What does Agnes say ?” 

“ Is it a pleasant jilace ?” inquired Agnes. 


A DA.TJGmTER,’S HSnr'LXJENCE. 9 


“It is quite pleasant for a farm-house,” 
replied her father. 

“ It is a capital place,” said Frank Wilbur. 
“ I wish Dr. Allen would tell father to send 
me there.” 

“You look as if you needed a doctor to 
prescribe for you,” said Agnes, as she glanced 
across the table at her young brother, who 
certainly looked the very picture of health, as 
he sat there, dispatching his plate of soup 
with that keen relish indicative of the excel- 
lent appetite usual to healthy boys of his 
age. 

“I really do think that some of Aunt 
Lucy’s raspberries and cream would benefit 
me very much,” said Frank, with an air of 
mock gravity which drew a smile from all 
present. 

Your aunt will no doubt be glad to see 
you, and do all in her power to make your 
visit agreeable,” said Mr. Wilbur. 

“How many cousins have I in Woodville, I 
should like to know ?” said Agnes. 


10 


A&ISrES WILBXJR; OB, 


“ I have told you ever so many times/’ said 
Frank. 

“ I know you have talked about Harry and 
Susie, and how many more I don’t remember.” 

“ There are five of them,” said Mr. Wilbur. 
“ Charles, Walter, Harry, Lucy and Susie. I 
am not, however, sure that all the boys are at 
home. Some of them are old enough to be 
off.” 

“ It is the nicest place that ever you saw,” 
said Frank. “You can’t help getting well 
and strong if you go there.” 

“ Shall I write and ask if it is convenient 
for your aunt to receive you at the present 
time?” inquired Mr. M^ilbur. 

“Just as you please, father; I rather think 
I should enjoy it, but I can tell better when I 
have tried it.” 

“ Of course you will enjoy it,” said Frank; 
“ you can’t help doing that.” 

The letter to M^oodville was written and 
mailed that evening, for ]\Ir. Wilbur was a 
thorough business man. 


A. r>A.XJGHITER,’S INELTJElSrCE, H 


There had been very little intercourse be- 
tween Mr. Wilbur and his sister for some 
years. This was not owing to any estrange- 
ment, but to that separation caused by differ- 
ent spheres of action, modes of life, and hab- 
its of thought and feeling, which so often 
widens the distance between those who once 
dwelt beneath the same paternal roof. 

The active, enterprising and prosperous 
New York merchant seldom found time for 
even a brief visit to the retired farm-house. 
On his last visit he had taken with him Frank, 
his only son, who, wuth a boy’s love for the 
country, had been delighted with all he saw. 
Frank’s sisters had never accompanied their 
father on his visits to Woodville, and Agnes, 
at eighteen, was an entire stranger to her rela- 
tives there. 

The reply to Mr. Wilbur’s letter was prompt 
and .satisfactory. His sister wrote that she 
would be happy to welcome Agnes, and have 
her remain with them as long as she should 
find the change beneficial and agreeable. 


12 


u;^eHSrES 'WIEBUR; OR, 


An hour or two after the receipt of this 
letter, Fanny Steele, a gay young friend of the 
sisters, called upon them. 

“ What do you think father and the doctor 
propose to do with me ?” said Agnes to this 
young friend. 

“ I can’t imagine,” said Fanny. 

“ They are going to send me into the coun- 
try for the benefit of my health.” 

“AVhere?” 

“To Woodville, to an aunt of mine, my 
father’s sister. My aunt’s husband is a 
farmer. 

“ Why don’t you go to Newport or Saratoga 
for your health ? It would be a great deal 
more fashionable.” 

“ The doctor has persuaded father that it 
would not be so beneficial.” 

“ Pshaw ! so they really are going to send 
you on to a farm to eat bread and cheese ?” 

“ Father says that one don’t often find such 
bread and cheese as Aunt Lucy can make ; 
that is one comfort,” said Agnes, laughing. 


A. DATJCmTER’S IN'EEXJEN’CE. 13 


“ AVhcre is this Woodville ? In some al- 
most inaccessible region, I suppose.” 

“ It is six miles from L , the nearest 

railroad station. But do not be alarmed. We 
shall no doubt penetrate safely to this remote 
region, as my aunt writes that my Cousin 
Walter will meet us at this station.” 

“Have you ever seen this cousin of 
yours ?” 

“ Never.” 

“ I should like to be there when you reach 
the station. It would be as good as a play,” 
said the lively Fanny, who was bent upon 
bantering Agnes on the subject of this con- 
templated visit to her country relatives. 

“ What would you expect to see if you could 
be there ?” inquired Agnes. 

“ I can picture the whole scene.” 

“ I wish you would put the picture in such 
a form that I too can see it.” 

“ In the first place you will probably have 
the privilege of standing on the platform, and 
staring about you for full fifteen minutes, for 
2 


l4 A-G^NES WIEBUR; OR, 

I am told that country people are usually that 
long behind time. Then you will see your 
cousin driving up in a farm wagon. He will 
of course be dressed in an old straw hat, a 
shabby gray coat, blue pants and thick cow- 
hide boots.” 

Agnes was much amused, but not at all dis- 
heartened by her friend’s caricature of country 
manners and habits. 

“ Frank thinks it is a very pleasant place,” 
she said. 

“ Of course he does. Did you ever see a 
boy of twelve who was not perfectly delighted 
with a half-civilized state of things? Frank 
is just like our Ned, who is half crazy to get 
on to a farm in the country. If father would 
let him do as he likes, I believe he would 
stay at Uncle Wilson’s the year round. He 
thinks there never was a place like it. I was 
once there two days, and that was enough for 
me.” 

“I expect to enjoy myself,” said Agnes. 
“ I intend to be pleased, and that will go a 


A. DAUCS-HTER’S INEEUEISTCE. 15 


great ways. Farm-life in the country will be* 
a novelty to me, and I like new things.” 

“Well, I hope you will enjoy it,” said 
Fanny; “but I prophesy that you will be 
back in two weeks.” 


TBE STTRPItlSE. 


“^UE. plans for next week will all be 
Vy disarranged/’ said Mr. Wilbur to Agnes 
one evening, the week previous to the one 
fixed upon for the journey to Woodville. 

“What is the trouble?” inquired Agnes. 

“ I find that I shall have to spend some days 
in Philadelphia next week, and that will ren- 
der it impossible for me to go to Woodville 
with you.” 

“ Can’t you go on the following week ?” 

“You forget that I then start for the West, 
to be absent three weeks.” 

“ Agnes will have to give up her visit to 
Woodville for the present,” said Caroline. 

Mr. Wilbur looked unusually annoyed. In 
fact he was so. His daughter had not been 


A. DATJCmTER’S INFLUENCE. 17 


very seriously ill, but her fading color and 
failing strength and appetite had caused him 
considerable uneasiness. He had more than 
once consulted his family physician in regard 
to her case, and now he felt quite anxious to 
try the effect of the Doctor’s last prescription. 
He was very desirous to take Agnes to Wood- 
ville, and introduce her to his sister and her 
family, and he was much disappointed when 
he found that it would be necessary for him 
to go in another direction. Caroline noted 
his clouded brow. 

“Why, father,” she said, “you look as 
grave as if you thought the life of Agnes 
depended on her going to Woodville next 
week.” 

“ I have no such thought,” said Mr. Wilbur, 
“ but I must own that I am a good deal dis- 
appointed. I wish Agnes to spend a few 
weeks at Woodville, for I think it might 
restore her to wonted strength and vigor, and 
health is a great blessing.” 

“ I wish I could go,” said Agnes. “ When 


18 


7^G-asr3SS WILEXJH; OR, 


I have once made up my mind to a thing, I 
never like to give it up.” 

“ I could go with you as far as Boston,” said 
Mr. Wilbur, thoughtfully, “but that would 
not remove the difficulty. It would not be 
pleasai\t for you to go the rest of the way 
alone.” 

“ It would be anything but pleasant to go 
among strangers in that way,” said Caroline. 

“I don’t think they are altogether stran- 
gers.” 

“ You never saw them,” said Caroline. 

“ I know it,” said Agnes, “ but my father’s 
sister ought not to seem quite like a stranger.” 

“ That is true,” replied Mr. Wilbur. 

“Why can’t I go?” she continued. “If you 
can see me on board the cars at Boston, and 

one of my cousins will meet me at the L 

station, I do not think there will be any diffi- 
culty. I should like it, just for the novelty 
of the thing.” 

“ It is, I suppose, what you would call an 
adventure,” said Caroline, laughing. 


A. ODAUGHTER’S INEEUENCE. 19 

“ If I could be sure that they would meet 
me at the station.” 

“ I don’t think they will fail to do that,” 
said her father, “ but if you should go, I will 
make it doubly sure by writing to them again, 
and informing them that I cannot go with 
you farther than Boston. If they know that 
you are alone, they will on no account fail to 
meet you.” 

“ May I go, father?” 

“ I will think about it, and to-morrow we 
will decide.” 

The next morning it was decided that Agnes 
should go. On the appointed day the travel- 
lers started, Mr. Wilbur for Boston and Agnes 
for Woodville. 

After parting with her father in Boston, it 
was natural that the thoughts of Agnes should 
turn with increased interest and curiosity to 
the end of her journey, and the new friends 
she would find there. 

First would be the cousin who would meet 
her at the station. She began to wonder how 


20 


AGONES WILBUR; OR, 


they would find each other out, and what he 
would be like. Fanny Steele’s description of 
him occurred to her more than once. Proba- 
bly she was not herself aware how much her 
own mind’s picture of him resembled that de- 
scription. 

At last the conductor called out D . 

Agnes knew this was ten miles from the place 
where she was to leave the cars. At this sta- 
tion four or five passengers left, and as many 
more entered. Among the latter was a young 
man who soon drew the attention of Agnes. 
He took a seat in a position Avhere it was very 
convenient for her to observe him. 

After a brief glance around the car, a glance 
which rested for a moment upon Agnes, he 
drew from his pocket a package which bore 
the appearance of a book fresh from the book- 
store. After removing the brown paper 
wrapper, he opened it, and soon became 
engrossed in its perusal. While he stu- 
died the book, Agnes studied the face of the 
reader. In repose it was a grave, earnest face. 


DAUGHTER’S UsrELUEHCE. 21 

The mouth wore an expression of mingled 
firmness and sweetness. The eyes were large 
and expressive, but grave and earnest also, 
though Agnes fancied that they could wear a 
ditferent expression. She liked the face with- 
out really knowing why. 

After a while she found herself wondering 
who and what he was. Could he be a stu- 
dent? The book and the studious aspect 
looked like it, but the bronzed complexion 
and a certain something which spoke of fa- 
miliarity with manual labor, seemed to contra- 
dict this supposition. Could he be a farmer ? 
Agnes was sure that he did not look or appear 
like one. Suddenly the eyes were raised and 
met her own. Agnes blushed, for she was 
conscious that she had been caught in the act 
of a very minute observation of her fellow- 
traveller. She felt the blush, but knew not 
whether it was observed, for the eyes instantly 
returned to the book, and were not again 

raised until the conductor called out “ L 

station.” 


22 


A&NES WILBUR.; OR, 


The attention of Agnes was now engrossed 
by the desire to get out of the cal's in time, 
and in the fear that in her inexperience of 
travelling alone, she might make a blunder of 
some kind. In a minute she was on the plat- 
form, and in another minute the cars had 
passed on and left her standing there. She 
thought of Fanny Steele’s description of the 
scene, and looked around, not indeed expect- 
ing to see the lumber w^agon, yet certainly not 
knowing exactly what to expect. Next she 
cast a half-timid glance on those near her on 
the platform. Only a few feet from her stood 
the young man who had entered the cars at 
D , and had been the subject of her par- 

ticular observation. Again their eyes met, 
and to her surprise he immediately approached 
her. 

“Allow me to inquire if I have the pleasure 
of speaking to Miss Wilbur ?” he said cour- 
teously. 

“ How can this young man possibly know 
anything of me?” thought Agnes. In her 


A. I>A.XJGi-HTER,’S INELTIElSrCE. 23 

confusion, the most simple and rational ex- 
planation of the mystery did not occur to 
her. 

“ I am Miss Wilbur,” she said. 

“And I am Walter Carry 1,” was the quiet 
reply. 

“ You my cousin !” exclaimed Agnes, almost 
involuntarily, in the greatness of her surprise. 

“I believe I have that honor,” said the 
young man with a pleasant smile, a just per- 
ceptible gleam of mirthfulness lighting up 
his eyes, reminding Agnes that the extreme 
surprise betrayed by her tone and manner 
must be somewhat amusing to her cousin. 

Recovering herself, she held out her hand 
frankly, saying, “ I saw you in the cars.” 

“ Yes, and I saw you there,” he said, as he 
took her hand. “ I had a suspicion it was 
you. If I had been sure of it, I would have 
introduced myself before. I had a little bus- 
iness in D , so I drove over in time to 

take the down train, and return in the one 
which I hoped would bring you.” 


24 


AO-OSTES ■WILBUR; OR, 


He then conducted Agnes to the ladies’ 
room, and seated her in a chair by a window. 

“ I have left my horse at a. stable near by,” 
he said. “ If you will remain here until I 
can bring it round and see to the baggage, we 
shall then be ready for a start.” 

In a few minutes Agnes saw him driving 
up in a neat carriage, with a fine, spirited 
horse. She recalled the picture drawn for her 
by her friend, Fanny Steele, and wondered 
what she would think if she were there. 

“I had no thought of seeing you in the 
cars,” said Agnes, as they left the station be- 
hind them. “That is one reason I was so 
surprised when you told me who you were.” 

“You say one reason; then there are 
others.” 

“ Why yes,” acknowledged Agnes. 

“ Was I so very unlike what you expected 
to see ? Was that one of the reasons you have 
not named ?” 

Agnes laughed and blushed, but admitted 
that it was so. 


^ DA-UGHITEIl’S II^FLTJEIvrCE. 25 


“ It is not an uncommon experience/’ said 
her cousin. “ I think when we see places or 
persons for the first time, we usually find them 
different from our expectations. What do you 
expect to find at Woodville?” 

“ I hardly know,” said Agnes. 

“ You must not expect to find a gentleman’s 
country seat; if you do, you will be disap- 
pointed.” 

“ I don’t expeet that.” 

“A'ou will find a comfortable and conve- 
nient farm-house, and a well-ordered farm ; 
but you will no doubt find everything very 
different from what you have been accustomed 
to in New York. I hope the difference will 
not be disagreeable.” 

“ I shall enjoy it, I am sure,” said Agnes. 
“ I like change.” 

A short but pleasant drive brought Agnes 
to the home of her aunt. We shall not here 
describe the welcome received, or the thoughts 
and feelings of those first hours; but shall 
leave it for our story to unfold the impressions 
3 


26 


AGN-ES WIEBUR. 


made upon the mind of Agnes by all she saw 
and heard at Woodville. She was very weary 
when she retired to her room that night, but 
her mind was too mueh excited by the various 
events of the day to yield itself up at once to 
the soothing influence of sleep. 


III. 


A TAZK WITH COTTSIN WAXTJEH. 

GNES awoke very late the next morning. 



•tX. The sun was shining brightly into her 
room, but as the windows faced the west she 
could not tell how many hours it had been 
shining. Soon after she was awake she heard 
the door of her room open softly a little way 
and her cousin Lucy’s voice asking if she 
might come in. 

“ Come in/’ said Agnes. 

“ Mother sent me up to see if you would be 
ready for breakfast in half an hour,” said 
Lucy. 

‘‘Yes,” replied Agnes, “have you had 
breakfast ?” 

“ Oh, yes, a long time ago. Mother thought 
you would be very tired, and would like to 
sleep late this morning.” 


27 


28 


A-O-NES ■WILBER; OR, 


In half an hour Agnes went down and 
found a nice breakfast provided for her ; but 
there was no one except herself to partake of 
it. After it was finished her cousin Susie 
manifested a disposition to become better ac- 
quainted with her city cousin. Susie was the 
youngest of the family, a little girl of ten 
years. 

“ Don’t you want to come out and see my 
chickens?” she said to Agnes. “There are 
fifteen of them, and you don’t know what 
cunning little things they are.” 

Agnes readily accepted this proposal for 
two reasons ; she wanted to gratify her cousin 
and she also wished to commence without 
delay her acquaintance with life on the farm. 

The chickens were duly admired, and Agnes 
was then conducted by her young guide from 
the poultry yard to the garden, where Susie 
wished to show a bed of flowers, carefully 
cultivated by her own hands. Near to the 
garden was a fine orchard. Agnes saw several 
men at work in the field beyond the orchard. 


A. DAUQ-HTER’S I^STFEUEN'CE. 29 


“ Are those men mowing ?” she asked. 

“Yes,” said Susie. 

“Then it is haying time, is it?” 

“ Just the beginning of it. Father always 
l)egins with that field.” 

“ Let us go and see them work. How shall 
we get there ?” 

“I will show you the way,” said Susie, 
conducting Agnes back into the yard and to a 
small gate leading into the orchard. 

As they were passing through the gate Susie 
heard her mother calling to her from the 
kitchen door. 

“ Mother is calling to me, and I must re- 
turn to the house,” she said. “It is too 
bad!” 

“ Never mind,” said Agnes, “ I will go on 
alone. I shall not get lost.” 

Agnes crossed the orchard, and for a while • 
watched the men over the fence. She liked 
to watch them, and wishing to get a better 
view, she climbed over the fence into the field 
where the men were. She drew near to one 


30 


AGNES •WILBUR; OR, 


who was at work some distance from the rest. 
As she approached the mower turned round, 
and Agnes saw that it was Walter. He looked 
so different in his working clothes that she 
had not suspected it was he. 

“I did not know it was you,” she said. 
“ I thought it was one of your father’s hired 
men.” 

“ It is,” said AValter. “ I am my father’s 
hired man.” 

“ Does he hire his own boys ?” 

“He hires me. I will tell you about it 
when I have cut this swath. I shall stop for 
lunch then.” 

“ For luneh ! I have only just finished my 
breakfast.” 

“ I ate mine more than four hours ago.” 

“ Do you go to the house for lunch ?” 

“No, I expect to find it under the tree 
yonder.” 

After Walter had finished his swath he hung 
his scythe on a branch of a tree near by, re- 
marking, as he did so, “I believe it was Daniel 


A. DATJGmXEIt’S ESTEEXTElSrCE. 31 

Webster’s scythe which never was hung right 
only when it was hung on a tree.” 

“ Is that the case with your scythe ?” asked 
Agnes. 

“ Not exactly. I like mowing very well, 
though I like some other things better, at least 
for one’s life-work.” 

Agnes had observed that the other men 
had left their work and were eating their 
luncheon under a tree on the other side of the 
field. 

“ It seems you prefer to lunch alone.” 

“ I am not always so unsocial,” said Walter, 
“ but this morning I wished, while resting, to 
examine the book I purchased yesterday, so I 
asked Lucy to leave some lunch for me under 
the tree on this side.” 

“ Then I must not remain. If I do I shall 
prevent the reading.” 

“ Stay by all means. I shall be more than 
willing to alter the morning’s programme in 
this respect, and enjoy a few minutes’ conver- 
sation with you in place of the reading.” 


32 


AGNES WILBUR; OR, 


“ The latter would be the more profitable, 
no doubt.” 

“ I am not so sure of that. You see that 
there are no seats in my eating saloon. Will 
you sit down upon the carpet ? I think you 
will find it dry if you do not go too far into 
the shade.” 

Agnes thought it very rural, sitting there on 
the soft, green grass, while her cousin opened 
the bright tin pail they found under the tree, 
and dispatched the bread, cheese, and dough- 
nuts it contained. 

“You do not intend to be a farmer, I con- 
clude,” she said, after some conversation on 
various subjects. 

“ Why do you think so ?” 

“ You said just now that you would like 
some other things better than mowing for one’s 
life-work.” 

“And from this you inferred that I do not 
intend to be a farmer. The inference is a cor- 
rect one. Ever since I was a small boy I 
have had a great desire to obtain an education. 


^ D^TJO-HTER’S IlSTEEUENCE. 33 


jNIy father was not able to help me much, but 
he kindly offered to give me my time after I 
was seventeen, if I was disposed to work my 
way through college with the little assistance 
he could render. I am now fitted to enter 
college. I have taught school two winters to 
help along. This summer my father offered 
to hire me, if I was disposed to work for him 
two or three months. I thought I could not 
do better than accept this offer, as it would 
enable me to remain at home a number of 
weeks, and the work would increase my phy- 
sical strength and vigor. Now you under- 
stand how it happens that I am one of my 
father’s hired men.” 

“ What do you mean to be ?” 

“ I hope to be a minister some day.” 

“A minister!” repeated Agnes, the tone 
betraying disappointment. 

“Yes, don’t you like my choice?” 

“ I can’t say I do.” 

“Why not?” 

Agnes hesitated a moment and then re- 


34 


-WILBUR,. 


plied : “ Father says that ministers are always 
poor.” 

It is very generally the case, I believe,” 
said Walter, smiling. 

“ Then I am sure you can do a great deal 
better.” 

“How?” 

“ I have heard father say that some of our 
wealthiest men come directly from the coun- 
try, and have built up their own fortunes. I 
think you might do the same if you should 
try.” 

“Perhaps I might if I had not a higher 
object of ambition.” 

“ A higher objeet !” 

“ Yes ; when you go back to the house, if 
you will open your Bible, and turn to the 
twelfth chapter of Daniel and the third verse, 
you will find what that object is. I see the 
men have returned to their work, and I must 
go to mine. I must show them that the col- 
lege boy, as they sometimes eall me, can keep 
up with the best of them.” 


IV, 


THE FAMIZT BIBLE CONSULTED. 

GNES returned to the house in a very 



/X thoughtful mood. She had become much 
interested in her Cousin Walter, regarding 
him as an intelligent and gifted young man, 
capable of becoming almost anything he should 
choose to be. Already she had begun to build 
air-castles, in which she had marked out for 
him a career of wealth and distinction. 

But all these bright visions had been dis- 
pelled by Walter’s simple assertion that he 
intended to be a minister. Agnes had more 
than once heard her father speak regretfully 
of an early friend who had made the same 
clioice. “Foster,” she had heard him say, 
“was the brightest boy in our school. His 
energy and talents would have insured for 


35 


86 


^»asrES WIEBUR,; OK, 


him success in anything he chose to undertake. 
He might have been worth a half-a-milliou 
to-day, but he is only a poor minister, with a 
salary which cannot provide for himself and 
family what we regard as the necessaries of 
life. He has not even made the most of him- 
self in the profession he has chosen. He might 
have been the pastor of a wealthy and genteel 
city church, but he has always chosen the 
roughest and hardest work, quite regardless 
of all pecuniary considerations. I cannot 
understand him. I never could.” 

Mr. Wilbur had spoken truly when he said 
that he could not understand this friend of 
his boyhood. He was himself a worldly man, 
and could not comprehend the motives which 
stirred that noble heart,, and guided and di- 
rected that energetic will and gifted intellect. 
Like the great apostle of the Gentiles, this 
man had not chosen the places of comparative 
ease, where he would find things made ready 
to his hand, but he had determined “to preach 
the gospel in the regions beyond.” 


^ D^xJGHTEn’s lasrFLXJEisrcE. 37 


Agnes thought of all she had heard her 
father say of this early friend when she told 
Walter that she did not like his choice, and 
expressed her own firm conviction that, if he 
would, he might become one of the merchant 
princes of her native city. 

He had quietly put aside all these consid- 
erations with the simple statement that he had 
a higher object of ambition, and for further 
information on that subject, he had referred 
her to her Bible. This was a home thrust, 
though doubtless an unintentional one on 
'W^alter’s part. Agnes had a very elegant 
copy of the Holy Word, a present from her 
father, on one of her birth-days. This vol- 
ume was in its accustomed place, in her own 
room, in New York, while her cousin was 
evidently taking it for granted that her Bible 
had been her travelling companion to Wood- 
ville, and would be her daily companion while 
there. Ought it not toTave been so? This 
was the question which now forced itself upon 
the mind of Agnes, and her conscience began 

4 


38 


WILBUR; OR, 


to reproach her for her neglect of the precious 
volume. 

She could not consult her own Bible to find 
the passage referred to, but must use another 
for tills purpose. She knew just where to find 
the large family Bible, for she had been in- 
troduced to that on the previous evening, 
when her uncle, with all his family gathered 
around, had read a chapter, which had been 
followed by an earnest and fervent prayer. 

Agnes knew that her aunt and cousins were 
in the kitchen, and not caring to be seen, she 
passed quietly round to the front of the house. 
Entering the front door unobserved, she went 
straight to the family Bible. It was with a 
feeling of reverence unusual to her that she 
opened it, and turned over its leaves until she 
found the passage she sought, and read, “ And 
they that be wise shall shine as the brightness 
of the firmament ; and they that turn many to 
righteousness, as the ‘stars forever and ever.” 

Immediately, thought and imagination 
placed .the two pictures side by side, the choice 


A. r*A.XJGHITEri’S INFLUENCE. 39 

slie had made for her cousin, and the one he 
had made for himself ; the princely city man- 
sion, and tlie unfading brightness and glory. 
Could she ask him to relinquish the object of 
his choice for hers? 

She thought of a mansion which had been 
made a house of mournino- during the last 

o o 

winter. The master of that mansion had been 
laid low in death. He had a princely fortune, 
but not the smallest portion of it could he 
carry with him. There was too much reason 
to fear that it had been all his treasure. At 
the age of two-score and ten he had been torn 
away from the object of his highest hopes 
and aims. Would it be so with that otlier 
object of ambition? Ah, no! that brightness 
was unfading ; that glory could not pass away. 
It was “forever and ever.” Could she feel 
that AValter had made an unwise choice ? 

From her cousin, the thoughts of Agnes 
turned to herself. What was her purpose in 
life? Perhaps it Avas not to be expected that 
one of her age and sex Avould have any special 


40 


^GISTES WIEBXJR,; OR-, 


object of ambition, but surely a young lady 
should have some aim, calling for the exercise 
of her noblest powers and faculties. Had she 
such an aim ? She felt that she had. Her 
chief desire had been to find the greatest pos- 
sible amount of enjoyment in each passing 
hour and day. Was this a worthy object? 
Would it not rather lead to a purposeless and 
aimless life? 

These thoughts revived the impressions of 
the previous night. When Agnes was first 
introduced to her uncle, he seemed to her, 
what he really was, a plain, hard-working 
farmer ; but when she saw him bending over 
the sacred pages of the Book which now lay 
open before her, he appeared to her in a dif- 
ferent aspect. 

!Mr. Carryl was a sincere and fervent Chris- 
tian. He was one whose intellect had been 
quickened and whose whole nature had been 
elevated and ennobled by the influence of 
things unseen and eternal. The very way in 
which that chapter was read showed that the 


A. D^tJG-ilTEIl’S HSrELUEN-CE. 41 

words liad been spirit and life to the soul of 
the reader, and the prayer which followed 
produced in the mind of the listener, the con- 
viction that he who offered it walked with 
God on earth and was in the daily habit of 
communion with heaven. 

Walter had told his cousin that she would 
find things very different in their country 
home from what she had been accustomed to. 
Already Agnes had discovered this, in many 
particulars. She had liked it, for a change, 
yet all her comparisons had been in favor of 
her luxurious city home. 

Here was a difference of quite another cha- 
racter, and far more important and radical 
than those she had previously observed. She 
had seen that the two families were living 
in a very different manner in this world ; she 
now began to feel that they were living for 
different worlds. Her father and his- family 
were living for this -world ; but those- who 
knelt around that family altar were surely 
living for another. Had the family worship 

4 * 


42 


A.&NES WILBER. 


that night been conducted in a cold and for- 
mal manner, how different would have been 
the impression upon the mind of that youth- 
ful guest. The fire from heaven had descended 
and touched the sacrifice, and even the cold - 
and worldly heart of Agnes felt the glow. 

The brief conversation with her cousin and 
the passages of Scripture to which he had 
referred her, revived the impression then 
made. She felt that Walter had written on 
all his life plans and hopes, “Not for this 
world, but the next.” She closed the Bible 
and restored it to its place, but she still sat by 
the table in deep thought until she was aroused 
by the sudden appearance of Susie, who ex- 
claimed, 

“ I have been hunting for you everywhere. 

I have half a dozen things to show you. Will 
you come ?” 

Agnes was more than willing to be relieved 
of thoughts which from their unwonted seri- 
ousness were becoming painful to her. 


1 / 


V. 


AzrjyT MAitinA. 


OU have not seen Aunt Martha yet,” 



JL said Susie, the next morning as she sat 
in the back portico with Agnes. 

“ Wlio is Aunt Martha ?” inquired Agnes. 

“ Mliy, she is Aunt Martha,” rej)lied Susie, 
witli childish simplicity. 

“ Where does she live ?” 

“ Here, of course.” 

“ I ‘supposed I had seen all who live here. 
Where does this Aunt JMartha keep herself?” 

“ She keeps just in one place all the time, 
for she can’t leave her bed.” 

“ Is she yopr aunt ?” 

“ Oh, no, but we all call her so. She has 
lived here a long while, ever so many years 
before I was born.” 


43 


44 


A^GISTES WILBXJR; OH,, 


“ Is she a servant ?” 

“ A servant !” repeated Susie, for she was 
not accustomed to the use of this term as a 
liousehold ^yord. 

‘‘ ITes, did your mother hire her to work for 
her?” 

‘‘Oh, yes. She hired her just as she does 
Sally now. Sally takes her place.” 

“ Is it the custom, in the country, to give 
servants a home and to take care of them when 
they are no longer able to work ?” 

“I don’t know,” said Susie. “\Ye take 
care of Aunt Martha of course.” 

“Of course?” 

“ Why yes, wdiat else could we do ?” 

Mrs. Carry 1 came out into the portico just 
in time to hear the latter part of this conver- 
sation. She was amused by Susie’s manner 
of answering the questions which had been 
asked, but she smiled, and said, “Susie is 
quite right. What else could we do ?” 

“ Come and see Aunt IMartha,” said Susie, 
“ I will show you the way to her room.” 


-A- D^UGI-ITEn’S INELUElSrCE. 45 


“ Do you think she will want to see me ?” 

“ Yes, I am sure she will. I have told her 
ever so much about you.” 

“You have?” 

“Oh, yes, I always tell Aunt Martha every- 
thing. Come, will you ?” 

Agnes followed her young eondiictor, not 
unwillingly, for her curiosity was awakened 
to see one who must be taken care of, as a 
matter of course, when she could no longer be 
of service in the family. 

“Aunt Martha, I have brought Cousin 
Agnes to see you ;” and Susie, delighted, drew 
her visitor close up to the side of the bed. 

“ I am very glad of it, my child.” 

“Susie tells me that you have heard of me,” 
said Agnes, smiling. 

“ Oh, yes ; she has talked of you a great 
deal ever since you came, which was night 
before last, w'as it not ?” ' 

“Yes,” said ’Agnes, “Susie says that you 
cannot leave your bed. That, I am sure, must 
be very hard to bear.” 


46 


>VGH^ES WILBUR; OR, 


“ I have a great deal to help me bear it, my 
dear. It will help us to bear anything if we 
remember that we are just where God would 
have us be, and that he always wills the thing 
that is best for us. Besides this great comfort, 
I have many others. Your uncle and aunt 
are very kind to me, and so are all the chil- 
dren. I have a great deal to be thankful 
for.” 

These words were uttered in a tone and 
manner which left no doubt of their sincerity, 
and Agnes looked at the speaker with in- 
creasing interest and curiosity. There were 
lines of jiaih in the thin, wrinkled face, but 
there Avas also an expression of SAveetness, 
patience and gentleness, Avhich could hardly 
fail to be noted by the most careless observer. 

“Susie tells me that you are from New 
York,” said Aunt Martha, after a pause. “I 
suppose it is a great place, and full of sights 
Avhich I should consider very curious and 
Avonderful.” 

“ Tell Aunt Martha Avhat you told me last 


-A. r>A.XJG-IITER’S IN'ELTJElSrCE. 47 

night about the great Central Park, and the 
place where the boys and girls and the young 
gentlemen and young ladies skate in winter.” 

Agnes complied with this request, and find- 
ing that Aunt Martha listened intently, told 
lier of other things which she thought would 
interest and please, for she had a kind and 
thoughtful heart, and felt sure that if she were 
confined, week after week, and month after 
month, to a bed of pain and suifering, she 
would wish to be amused and diverted by 
those who visited her. 

I never saw a city in my life,” said Aunt 
Martha. “ I used to think that I would like 
to, very much, but I know now that I never 
shall until I see the City of the great King, 
the heavenly Jerusalem.” 

Agnes made no reply to this remark. She 
was much more at home in speaking of her na- 
tive city than of that one which Aunt Martha 
had mentioned. Not knowing exactly how 
to continue the conversation at this point, she 
rose to go, but said kindly. 


48 


WILBt/R; OR., 


“ Is there anythino; I can do for you before 
I leave 

“ Thank you,” said Aunt Martha, “ I don’t 
know that there is, unless you will read me a 
chapter in the Bible,” 

“ I will, with pleasure,” replied Agnes. 

“Here is the pr(;eious Book,” said Aunt 
IMartha, taking it from under her pillow, 
where it had been partly concealed, so that 
Agnes had not observed it. “ It is convenient 
to have it handy when any one offers to read 
me a chapter. Besides, it seems to me that 
I feel more comfortable when the Bible is 
Avithin my reach.” 

Agnes remembered the one she had left in 
her room at home, without a thought that 
taking it Avith her to Woodville could make 
her more comfortable ; and again, as on the 
previous day, her conscience reproached her 
for neglect of the Holy Book. With this feel- 
ing of self-reproach were also mingled AA'an- 
dering and perplexing thoughts. If she had 
brought her Bible to Woodville, and had read 


A. r)ATJGmTER,’S lE'ELUEE'CE. 49 

it daily M'liile there, she Avas sure it would not 
have made her any more comfortable. AVhy 
should the same book be a comfort to one, and 
a discomfort to another?” Agnes had been a 
very careless and thoughtless reader of the 
Bible. If its truths had made an impression 
upon her heart, she would have understood 
better the reason of this difference. But there 
Avas no time to pursue this train of thought, 
for she must attend to the business in hand. 

“What chapter shall I read ?” she asked, as 
she took the book from Aunt Martha. 

“You may read the descrij)tion of the eity 
of Avhich Ave were just speaking. I never tire 
of hearing that chapter read.” 

“She means the tAventy-first chapter of 
Revelation,” said Susie. 

This explanation Avas very timely, for Aunt 
ISIartha had not seemed to consider it neces- 
sary. 

Agnes Avas a good reader, and she got through 
the chapter very creditably, and to the seem- 
ing satisfaction of the listening sufferer. 

5 


50 


^GlSrES WILBUR,; OR, 


“ Does it not make your heart glad to read 
this beautiful description of tlie celestial city, 
the heavenly home?” said Aunt Martha, when 
the chapter was finished. . 

Agnes blushed, but made no reply. She 
was too truthful to lay claim to thoughts and 
feelings which never entered her heart. Aunt 
Martlia read the whole truth at a glance. She 
had touched a chord and found that it did not 
vibrate to the echoes of the music of the 
heavenly city, and* she felt almost sure that 
Agnes was not a Christian. She did not, 
however, alloAV her youthful visitor to perceive 
that she had made this discovery, but only 
remarked, 

“ It is not to be expected that one in the 
bloom of youth and health should see things 
just as they are seen by an aged pilgrim on 
the confines of eternity. But the young can 
give their hearts, and devote their lives to 
Jesus, who loves them and died to save them, 
and ’I sometimes think that the heart which is 
given to him never grows old.” 


^ D^XJG-HTER’S IT^ELUEISTCE. 51 

When Agnes left that bedside Aunt Martha 
bade her good-bye and invited her to come 
again in a manner so cheerful and gentle that 
she felt sure she would often visit that sick 
room. 

She had not been actuated wholly by disin- 
terested benevolence in lingering there so long. 
There was something in Aunt Martha which 
attracted the young, and caused them to feel 
a pleasure in her society. 

Agnes had felt this attraction Avhere she 
certainly had not expected to find it. More 
than once that day she asked herself why 
she was thus drawn towards this gentle 
and patient sufferer, and each time the same 
answer suggested itself. She had not forgot- 
ten the remark, which struck her so forcibly 
at the time, that “ the heart which is given to 
Jesus never grows old.” Was not this spe- 
cially true of Aunt Martha herself? Was it 
not because her own heart was young and 
fresh that she drew towards her the young, 
fresh hearts of childhood and youth? Was 


52 


'VVIEBUR. 


it love to Jesus which had done all this? If 
so, must there not be a magic power in that 
love? Ah, yes, a magic power far beyond 
what the thoughts of Agnes had ever con- 
ceived. 

But the interest which had been awakened 
by the visit to that sick room had not been all 
on one side. Agnes became an object of ten- 
der solicitude to Aunt JNIartha from the mo- 
ment she discovered, as she tliought, that she 
was not a Christian. She was too wise to 
press unwelcome truths upon her attention in 
a way calculated to offend, or disgust, or drive 
her from her presence ; but she resolved care- 
fully to watch for, and improve the golden 
opportunities to drop here and there a seed of 
truth, watering it in solitude with her tears 
and prayers, with the hope that a prayer- 
hearing God would cause those seeds to take 
root and bring forth fruit. 


VI. 


TILJS JiTJKCU OF W1J.T) FFOWEFS. 

GNES soon began to feel at home in 



and around the farm-house. The next 
morning, as she was returning from a stroll in 
the orchard, she met Susie at the little gate, 
with two tin pails. 

Where are you going, Susie ?” she asked. 

“ To carry lunch to the men.” 

“ Both these pails make quite a load for a 
little girl like you, do they not ?” 

“Oh, I shall not carry both at once any 
farther. I have two ways to go to-day. I 
shall leave the large pail under this tree while 
I carry the little one to Walter who is at work 
by himself this morning; then I shall come 
back and carry the large one to the other men. 
Lucy would have carried one of them, but 
she was very busy. Mother wanted her in the 
5 » 53 


54 


A.GNES WILBXJR,; OR, 


liouse, and I told them that I would carry- 
lunch to them all.” 

“If you will tell me where ^Yalter is at 
work, I will carry the small pail to him,” said 
Agnes. 

“Oh, thank you, I shall like that very 
much.” 

“ And I shall like it too,” said the other, 
smiling. “Now tell me where I shall find 
him.” 

Susie told her in what direction to go, and 
then started off herself, taking quite the oppo- 
site way. Agnes had no diffieulty in finding 
her cousin, and there Avas another talk under 
a venerable old tree while he ate his lunch. 

“ Susie has told me that she introdueed you 
yesterday to Aunt Martha,” said Walter. 

“ Yes,” Agnes replied. “Susie took me to 
her room yesterday morning,” 

“What did you and she find to talk about?” 
inquired Walter, who probably felt some curi- 
osity to know how Aunt Martha and his city 
cousin got on together. 


A. D^TJCmTER’S INFLXJEjSTCE. 55 


Oh, we found enough to say. We began 
by talking about New York, and Aunt Martha, 
as you call her, ended with talking about 
heaven.” 

“That was just like her. If she begins 
with talking about this world, she is very apt 
to end -with talking about the next. There 
can be no doubt where her heart is.” 

“ I suppose,” said Agnes, “ it is quite natu- 
ral that the next world should seem very near 
and very real to the aged who know that they 
cannot remain much longer in this.” 

“ I don’t quite agree with you. Cousin 
Agnes. I don’t think this is natural to any 
one. It is something above nature. I have 
seen aged persons who were quite as insensible 
to everything relating to the next world as 
many who are much younger. We who are 
young should feel the reality and nearness of 
the next world as much as those who are 
aged.” 

“ It don’t seem so to me.” 

“ I think you will admit the truth of what 


56 


WILBUR; OR, 


I have said if you will look at the subject in 
its true light. If our days are but a hand- 
breadth, the two extremes cannot be wide 
apart. In the sight of God and of angels 
they equally lie on the confines of eternity. 
If this life is but the vestibule of eternity, 
surely both the old and the young should seek 
to feel the reality and nearness of that world 
which is in truth so real and so near.” 

‘‘ It seems to me that would make all of 
life gloomy.” 

“ If you expected at twenty-one to become 
the possessor of a princely inheritance on the 
other side of the ocean, in England for in- 
stance, would it render the intervening years 
gloomy if your thoughts were to dwell much 
on that country, and on your palace-home 
there, with its beautiful surroundings ?” 

“ Of coui'se it would not.” 

“ And should it make one gloomy to think 
of that country where he has ‘ an inheritance 
incorruptible and undefilcd, and that fadeth 
not away ?’ ” 


A. D^UGf-HTER’S ESTEEEEN'CE. 57 

“ I suppose notj if one can only be sure of 
one’s title,” said Agnes slowly. 

“And if one is not sure of it, what then?” 

Agnes made no answer. 

“ Should it not be one’s first interest and 
concern to make sure of it ?” 

“ I suppose so.” 

“ If w^e realize the certainty and nearness 
of that other world, Avill it not tend to make 
us more in earnest to secure a title to an in- 
heritance there ?” 

“ How can one make sure of such a title ?” 

“ A'our Bible tells you how. That is given 
us to be ^ a lamp to our feet and a light to our 
path.’ It can light us safely through the 
dark and narrow vestibule to the bright w’orld 
beyond.” 

Agnes thought of the Bible so carelessly and 
thoughtlessly left behind. Would that be a 
lamp to her feet? Would it have been if she 
had taken it with her to Woodville? She 
very much doubted if it would. She doubted 
if she knew how so to read and use it that it 


58 


^O-ISTES WILBUR,; OR, 


would enlighten her path. She wished to 
ask a question on that point, but she feared it 
would betray too much ignorance, and her 
pride withheld her from asking it. 

“If you would like to gather some wild 
flowers I can show you where to find them,'’ 
said Walter, as he rose to return to his work. 

“ I should like it very much.” 

“ Do you see that knoll yonder ?” 

“Yes'” 

“You will find the flowers just beyond.” 

Thanking Walter for this information Agnes 
left her cousin to return to his work, Avhile she 
went in search of the flowers. 

In about half an hour she returned with 
her hands full. 

“They are very pretty,” she said, as she 
approached Walter. “ I am glad you showed 
me where to find them. Do you think Aunt 
Martha would like some of them ? A'ou see 
you have already taught me to call her Aunt 
Martha. If I thought she would be pleased 
with them, I would take them to her.” 


A. X)-A.XJG!-I-ITEI?.’S IlSrirL,TJK]SrCE. 59 


“ I am sure that she would be, and I am 
still more sure that she would be pleased with 
the kind and thoughtful attention they would 
show. That, you know, is something Avhich 
pleases us all.” 

“ Yes, I suppose it does,” said Agnes. 

As she walked slowly back, she busied lier- 
sclf in selecting a bunch of flowers for Aunt 
Martha from those she had gathered, and as 
soon as she entered the house she took them 
right to the sick room. Pier heart was touched 
by the tender and grateful manner in which 
they were received. 

“ It is very kind of you to bring them to 
me, said Aunt Martha, “1 can only thank 
you, but may the dear Lord make you a pre- 
cious flower in his own garden.” 


VIT. 


A CnAFTEJt OF TJIF PAST. 

I N the afternoon Agnes found her aunt 
darning stockings, with a large basket of 
mending by lier side. 

“You are always busy, Aunt Lucy,” she 
said. 

“ I find it necessary to be so, but I do not 
regard it as a hard necessity, for a busy life 
may be a happy one, and all the happier for 
being busy.” 

“ I believe you are all happy here, even to 
Aunt Martha on her sick bed.” 

“Your speaking of her reminds me of 
what I have just seen. I went to her room 
before I sat down to my afternoon’s mending, 
and how do you think I found her em- 
ployed ?” 

60 


^ D^TJO-tlTER’S IT^FLTJETvTCE. 61 

“ I don’t knoAV, I am sure.” 

“ I found her shedding tears over a bunch 
of flowers.” 

“ Those I gave her ?” 

«Yes.” 

“ I hoped they would give her pleasure.” 

“ They Avere not tears of grief. Would you 
like to knoAV Avhat she said ?” 

“ I should very much like to know.” 

“ She said that she believed God had put it 
into the heart of every one to be kind to her. 
She thought surely that the gay young lady 
from the city Avould not care at all for her, but 
instead of that, she had been to her room tAvice, 
and had even been so thoughtful as to bring 
her the flowers she had gathered, and she 
added, ‘I can’t do anything for the dear young 
lady, but I do hope the Lord aauII make her a 
beautiful floAver in his OAvn garden. I can 
pray for that.’ ” 

“Susie says that Aunt Martha has been 
AAuth you a long time,” said Agnes, after a 
little pause. 

6 


62 


WILBUR,; OR, 


Yes, she has lived with us many years.” 

“ It is not every one who is so kindly 
treated when unable to work.” 

“ It is not every one who has such a claim 
upon the esteem and gratitude of those who 
have employed them. I must tell you about 
the time when Aunt Martha first came to us.” 

I should like to hear about it.” 

“ It was a time of sorrow. We have had 
seven children. Charles is the eldest.” 

“ Where is Charles?” inquired Agnes. “I 
have not heard his name mentioned before 
since I have been here.” 

“ He left us in the spring to seek a home in 
the West. He has made up his mind to be a 
farmer, and he thinks the West offers great 
advantages to those who have chosen that 
pursuit. 

“ Walter is next to Charles in age. Then 
there were two dear boys, Willie and Eddie, 
who, I trust, are now bright angels in heaven. 
They both died of the same fever, within one 
short week. Walter was Taken ill the day 


^ I>^XJGHITER’S IlSrirX^TJE?5-CE. 63 

that Eddie was buried, and three or four days 
after I was laid low with the same fever. 
That was a day of sorrow. None can under- 
stand how great, except tliey have passed 
through similar scenes. We could not get 
help, for all were afraid of the fever. There 
was no one but your uncle to do any tiling 
except when a kind neighbor came in for a 
few hours. 

“At this time Martha Foster was, or had 
been, living in a family residing three or four 
miles from us. One day a neighbor came in 
to say that this family had removed to a dis- 
tant state, and as Martha had not accompanied 
them, she thought it possible that we might 
secure her services. 

“ The chance seemed to me very small. I 
knew that Martha w'as excellent help, and 
might have a choice of half a dozen good 
places, and it seemed improbable that she would 
come to a place where the work would be very 
hard while we remained sick, besides the dan- 
ger of taking the fever. Still we all thought 


64 


WILBUIt; OR., 


it worth the trial, and one of our kind neigh- 
bors offered to remain with me while Mr. 
Carryl rode over to the house wliere Martha 
M^as staying. 

The hours of my husband’s absence were 
anxious, prayerful hours, hly chief care was 
for Walter. It seemed to me that he must die 
if things remained much longer as they were. 
]\Iy hope that Martha would return with 
your uncle was very faint, but still I clung to 
it, faint as it was, and felt that it would be very 
hard to give it up. 

“At last I heard the sound I had listened for 
so long. ]\Iy temporary nurse heard it also 
and hastened to the window. 

“ ‘ They have come,’ she exclaimed. 

“ How sweet was the sound of that plural 
pronoun. 

“ ‘ They ?’ I repeated inquiringly, almost 
afraid to believe the good news. 

“ ‘ It is Mr. Carryl, and Martha Foster is 
with him.’ 

“ Thank God,” I said fervently. 


A D^XTGmTEI?,’S IISTIT'LTJEN’CE. 65 


“In a few minutes Martha stood by my 
bedside. 

“ ‘ I hardly dared to hope that you would 
come, Martha ; I knew there were enough who 
would want you.^ 

“ ‘There are several who want me, but none 
who need me as you do,’ she said. ‘This 
morning I had not decided where to go, but 
when hlr. Carryl came and told me his story 
I felt that my duty Avas very plain.’ 

“ ‘ May God bless you for coming to us at 
this time !’ 

“ ‘ He ahvays blesses us Avhen we seek to 
knoAv and do his will,’ she said, in her own 
gentle and cheerful manner.” 

“ I do not think many would have done as 
she did,” said Agnes. 

“ Veiy few would have done so. I regard 
it as an act of true Christian heroism and be- 
nevolence. She might easily’ have found a 
place where the work was lighter, and the 
wages were higher; but instead of that, she 
came to us when we were doAvn Avith a fever 


66 


AOISTES WILBX7R.; OE,, 


which was regarded by many as highly conta- 
gious, consenting to do the double work of 
nurse and housekeeper, because we were in 
distress, and she felt it to be her duty to come 
to our relief. Martha was an excellent nurse, 
and Walter and I soon began to mend. I 
have always felt that we owed Walter’s life, 
under God, to ^Aunt Martha,’ as we now call 
her.” 

“ She seems to be very fond of Walter,” said 
Agnes. “She talked about him when I was 
in her room to-day, and seemed delighted that 
he could be at home this summer, speaking of 
it as one of the great blessings God had given 
her to comfort her in her sickness.” 

“ She has been very much attached to him 
since she nursed him in that sickness. I think 
she feels for him almost a mother’s love.” 

“ Has she remained with you ever since 
that time?” 

“Yes, she has never left us. She has lived 
here more as a friend than a servant, and I 
feel that she has been a great blessing in the 


A. r)ATJ&HTER,’S IKTEETJEKTCE. 67 

family. The children are much attached to 
her, and her influence over them has been all 
for good.. 

^^Her health began to fail two or three 
years since, and for the last three months she 
has been confined to her bed. The physicians 
say that she is in no immediate danger, and 
may live some years. While she lives we 
shall do all in our power to make her com- 
fortable. We should consider this was duty, 
if it were a much greater task, but she is so 
cheerful, gentle, and patient, that duty is 
changed to pleasure, and we all say with Susie, 
What else could we do ?” 

“ I am glad you have told me all this,” said 
Agnes. “ I was interested in Aunt Martha 
the first time I saw her, but now I shall feel 
a mucli greater interest. Is it not very rare 
to find such a character among those in her 
position ? The first time I went to her room 
I was struck with the refinement and elevation 
of her language and manner.” 

Such characters no doubt are rare. Yet 


68 


WILBTJR. 


there may bo founds scattered among our New 
England homes, many equal in intelligence 
and refinement to those Avhom they serve. 
True and earnest piety is an elevating princi- 
ple, and it is not uncommon to find, even in 
the humblest walks of life, an exalted purity 
of thought and expression, especially on reli- 
gious subjects, which would do credit to those 
occupying much higher stations.” 


VIII, 


J^J55 MART. 


NE night as Agnes Avas returning from a 



V/ stroll through the fields, she met Susie 
in the yard with a tin pail on her arm. 

“Where noAV, Susie?” she said. “I am 
sure it is not luncheon time.” 

“ No, but it is Miss Mary’s time.” 

“ Who is INIiss Mary ? and why do you say 
it is her time ?” 

“I said so because I carry her sometliing 
nice almost every Saturday,” replied Susie, 
ansAvering the last question. 

“ Where does Miss Mary live ?” 

“ Do you remember the little house at the 
foot of tTie hill, half AA'ay to the school- 
house ?” 

“ Yes, I remember it.” 


69 


70 


^GMSTES •WILBXJrt; OR, 


“ She lives there. She and her sister, Miss 
Sarah, live alone. Miss Mary is siek. That 
is the reason mother sends her so many niee 
things. I wish you would go there with me 
and see them. Why won’t you ?” 

“ It is not probable they would wish to see 
a stranger like me.” 

“ Oh, yes, they would. Besides, you are 
not a stranger ; for I go there almost eveiy 
day, and I have told them ever so mueh about 
you.” 

“ If the whole neighborhood don’t find out 
all about me, I think it will not be your 
fault,” said Agnes, laughing. 

“Won’t you go with me?” urged Susie, 
who, now she had thought of it, was very 
anxious that her eousin should aeeompany 
her. 

“ I am not sure it is best. I will ask your 
mother what she thinks about it,” said Agnes, 
turning towards an open window by whieh 
her aunt was sitting. 

“ Think about what ?” said her aunt, who 


A. DAUGHTER’S USTELUEjSrCE. 


71 


harl caught the last sentence as Agnes and 
Susie approached the window. 

“Susie wants me to go with her to see 
somebody she calls ‘Miss Mary.’ Do you 
think it is best ?” 

“ You know whether you would like to go, 
do you not ?” 

“ Oh, yes ; I should like it well enough, 
but I am a stranger. Are you sure that I 
would not be thought intrusive ?” 

“You need have no fear of that. The 
sisters will be glad to see you. Y^'our cidl 
will, no doubt, prove a pleasing variety in a 
life necessarily very monotonous. Mary Fisher 
is a confirmed invalid. Sarah supports her- 
self and her sister by her needle. I often 
send Mary something which I think would be 
acceptable to an invalid, because I know her 
sister has little time for such cooking and 
little money to spend for anything not abso- 
lutely necessary. If you go with Susie, I 
think you will enjoy the call, and no doubt 
will give as well as receive pleasure.” 


72 


AGlSrir.S WILBUR.; OR, 


“ Tlieii I shall certainly go.” 

When Agnes was introduced by Susie to 
Miss Mary, she was somewhat surprised to see 
a fine young girl, apparently but little older 
than herself, though thin and pale. She was 
sitting in an easy-chair, with some light sew- 
ing on her lap. Her sister, who seemed much 
older, almost old enough to be her mother, 
told Agnes that this was one of the invalid’s 
comfortable days, when she was able to sit up 
most of the time, and do a little light work ; 
but that often it was very different, and she 
was confined to her bed for days together. 

After a while Miss Sarah said that she had 
some very fine raspberries, and if the young 
lady would excuse her, she would go out and 
pick some for Aunt Martha. Susie followed 
her into the little garden and Agnes was left 
with Mary. 

“How long have you been sick?” she 
asked, as soon as they were left alone together. 

“ I received a serious injury from a fall ten 
years ago. I was but a child then, but I have 


-A. r>-A.XJ<3HITER.’S IISTITLXJEN'CE. 73 


never been able since to do like other children 
and young people, and have been gradually 
growing worse and worse.” 

“Don’t you feel very anxious to get well?” 

“Sometimes I do, but since I have been 
sure that it was not God’s will I don’t think 
I have felt so.” 

“ How can you be sure of that ?” 

“ The physicians tell me there is no hope 
of my recovery. God makes known his will 
to us sometimes by his Word, and sometimes 
by his Providence. When we are sure what 
his will is, I think we ought to be satisfied to 
have things as he wills them to be. Don’t 
you think so ?” 

“ I suppose we should, but I think it must 
sometimes be very hard to feel so.” 

“ It helps me to think often of the short- 
ness of life, and how this is the way in which 
my heavenly Father is leading me to a better 
world. Perhaps it was the only way for me. 
If I had enjoyed good health, I might have 
been gay and thoughtless, regardless of God, 
7 


74 


A-G-lSrES ■WIEBXJR.; OH, 


and of the welfare of my own soul, and that 
would have been far, far worse than all the 
pain and suffering I have endured. 

“ Sometimes I have been tempted to mur- 
mur more for my sister’s sake than my own, 
I wish so much to Help and aid her, instead 
of being only a burden ; but then I remember 
that my Saviour loves her far more than I can 
do, and that lie has chosen out the best way 
for lier as well as for me. How much there 
is, in God’s love and in his precious promises, 
to sustain us, if we will receive the comfort 
they afford.” 

Miss Sarah and Susie now came in from 
the garden, and the conversation was broken 
off. 

Walter was sitting on the door-step when 
Agnes and Susie returned. 

“ Where have you been ?” he asked. 

“ I have taken cousin Agnes to see Miss 
Mary,” said Susie. 

“Did you have a pleasant call ?” inquired 
Walter, addressing Agnes. 


^ D^UGHTEIt’S INFLXJEKTCE. 75 


“Yes,” said Agnes thoughtfully, ‘ Miss 
JMary,’ as Susie calls her, seems to me to be 
very good. I wonder if sickness always 
makes people good ?” 

“ Why should you think so ?” 

“ Aunt Martha and Mary Fisher both seem 
very good, and they are both sick.” 

“ Last winter I saw a man confined to his 
bed with the rheumatism, and he was so fret- 
ful and exacting that it was very disagreeable 
to be with him. Sickness did not make that 
man good.” 

“ It seems to me like the natural effect of 
sickness to make one cross and fretful.” 

“You are quite right about that. What 
you have witnessed is not the natural effect of 
sickness but the sanctified effect. You remem- 
ber well the story of the three men who were 
cast into the burning, fiery furnace by order 
of the king of Babylon.” 

“ Yes,” said Agnes. 

“It is the nature of fire to consume and 
destroy, yet these men were not consumed. 


76 


^OISTES WILBXJR.; OR, 


There was One with them in the flames whose 
form was like unto the Son of God — One all 
powerful to protect and deliver. It has often 
seemed to me as if this was a type of what 
every Christian will sooner or later find in his 
own experience, not indeed physically, but in 
his soul’s history. Not only sickness, but 
each trial, bereavement and severe disappoint- 
ment, each event which darkens our path, and 
cuts off our hopes, is to us a furnace of afflic- 
tion. The natural effect of these trials is to 
irritate, embitter and harden the spirit, but 
when they are sanctified by the grace of God 
quite the opposite effect is produced. The 
soul, humbled, subdued and chastened, is ren- 
dered gentle, patient and unselfish. 

“There is with the Christian in the fires 
of affliction One able to protect and deliver ; 
or, to change the figure, there is sitting by the 
furnace a refiner and purifier. In the beauti- 
ful words of the prophet, ^ He shall sit as a 
refiner and purifier of silver: and he shall 
purify the sons of Levi, and purge them as 


A DAUGHTER’S IHEEUENCE. 77 


gold and silver, that they may offer unto the 
Lord an offering in righteousness.” 

Agnes was struck with the beauty and force 
of this passage, and asked where it was. 

“ If you will let Susie go up to your room 
and bring down your Bible, I will mark this 
and some other passages of similar import, 
that you may examine them at your leisure.” 

“I have not my Bible here,” said Agnes, 
blushing. I left it at home.” 

“ I am sorry to hear it,” said Walter, gently 
but gravely. “It is given us to be ‘a lamp 
unto our feet, and a light unto our path.’ I 
find it necessary to hold it up each step of the 
way that I may know where to go. How do» 
you get along without it ?” 

Agnes made no reply. Indeed the question 
was put in such a manner that she felt her 
cousin wished her to answer it, not to him, 
but to her own heart. 

Two hours later when she retired to her 
room, she found on her table a neat, plain 
Bible. She felt confident that Walter had 


78 


AGNES -WILEER. 


placed it there. Did lie do it with the hope 
that it would be a “light unto her path” while 
she remained at Woodville? She took it up 
and read a chapter, and continued in the good 
habit every night during the remainder of her 
visit. 


IX. 


A WI^TTER nr TEE CITY. 

T he days passed quickly and pleasantly. 

One night Agnes received a letter from 
her father, stating that he hoped to be in 
Woodville the next week. She had not ex- 
pected him to come for her quite so soon, and 
hardly knew whether to be glad or sorry. She 
was partly both; glad to return, but really 
sorry to leave Woodville. 

A week from that night Agnes was at home 
once more. Mr. Wilbur declared himself 
well pleased with the effect of the Doctor’s 
prescription, for his daughter was evidently 
improved in health and strength. Agnes had 
many questions to answer about her visit to 
Woodville. Carrie and Frank were very in- 
quisitive. So also were some of her young 
friends, particularly Fanny Steele. 


79 


80 


A&NES WILBUR; OR, 


“ Were you not homesick ?” she asked. 

“ Not at all.” 

“ I do not see how you could enjoy your- 
self.” 

“ It was a happy family, and I believe that 
happiness is contagious.” 

“ What made them happy ?” 

Agnes hesitated for a moment, but she was 
naturally very frank, and she gave the answer 
which seemed to her nearest the truth. 

“ I hardly know,” she said. “ I think they 
are very good.” 

^^Oh, they are religious, are they? It is 
well you came home when you did. If you 
had remained longer, they might have made 
you like themselves.” 

“ I don’t believe they could do that. I al- 
most wish they could,” said Agnes, half 
playfully, half seriously. 

“I think you must have been very dull 
there.” 

“ Not at all. I fear you have a very in- 
correct impression of my aunt and her family, 


DAUGHTER’S II^EEUENCE. 81 


and I hardly know how to give you a correct 
impression. My aunt is very dilferent from 
my mother.” 

“I have no doubt of that,” said Fanny, 
significantly. 

“ But I do not mean the sort of difference 
you are thinking of, the difference between 
the wife of a plain farmer and the wife of a 
city merchant.” 

“ \yhat then do you mean ?” 

“^Yell, in the first place, I think my aunt 
is a great deal happier than my mother, — 
happier, indeed, than you and I, or any of 
us.” 

“ How can that be ? She is only a farmer’s 
wife, and you say that she is religious, too.” 

“ If I am not greatly mistaken it is her 
religion that makes her happy.” 

“ It would not make you and me happy.” 

“ Perhaps not,” said Agnes, doubtfully. 

“ I am very sure it would not.” 

“And yet it not only makes my aunt happy, 
but it makes all the family happy too.” 


82 


A. ONES 'WIEBUE; OR, 


“ That may be. I suppose religion agrees 
■well enough ■with farming and a life of seclu- 
sion in the country, but it is very different 
■with us here. Do you think it would agree 
with our balls, and gay parties, and places of 
amusement ?” 

I do not suppose it would.” ' 

-‘And do you think you could be happy if 
you were to give up these pleasures ?” 

“I think not, and yet you and I would 
both wish to be different from what we now 
are before we die.” 

“Yes, of course we would. But there is 
time enough for that. We are very young yet. 
We must enjoy ourselves for some years to 
come, and then there will be time enough to 
grow thoughtful and serious, and get ready to 
die. You stayed in Woodville quite long 
enough. It has made you so serious and 
mopish.” 

Agnes could not rest under such an imputa- 
tion ; so, to disprove that religious associations 
had had any such effect upon her, she at once 


A. DAUGHTER’S ESTEEXJEISrCE. 83 


plunged into a gay conversation on other sub- 
jects. 

When she entered her room that night her 
eyes fell upon her beautiful Bible which lay 
upon the table. In the morning she had 
found it in its accustomed place, where it had 
remained undisturbed during her visit to 
Woodville. The sight of it had recalled 
several little incidents of that visit. She 
remembered how her conscience had more 
than once reproached her for her neglect of 
this same book. It was this remembrance 
which led her to take it from its usual place, 
and lay it on the table. 

She now asked herself if she should read 
a chapter from it, as she had been accustomed 
to do from the small, plain Bible which had 
been left upon the table in her room in Wood- 
ville. But Caroline was there, and she feared 
that the perusal of a chapter before retiring 
would draw forth remarks from her sister, and 
perhaps she would tell Fanny Steele, who 
would be sure to rally her about becoming 


84 


AGATES WII^BER; OR, 


religious. The second thought and final de- 
cision was that she would not read a chapter 
that night. 

Her mind, however, was busy with the 
thoughts suggested by the sight of the Bible. 
She thought of all that Fanny Steele had said 
that afternoon, how she had spoken of religion 
as a dull and gloomy subject, all thoughts of 
which must be deferred for years to come, if 
they would enjoy any pleasure in life. She 
thought how differently the subject had been 
presented by her friends in Woodville. When 
Aunt Martha had spoken of becoming a Chris- 
tian, she had used the beautiful figure of a 
lovely flower in the King’s garden. When her 
Cousin Walter had spoken of those thoughts 
of another world which had seemed so gloomy 
to Fanny, he had compared it to an heir, 
dwelling on the thoughts of his rich inheri- 
tance. When her uncle gathered his family 
together for morning and evening worship, it 
did indeed seem as if he had gathered them 
there to commit them to the tender love and 


A. r)A.XJGmTER,’S IN'FLXJElSrCE. 85 

watchful care of the Father above. Her aunt 
had not, indeed, spoken much on this subject, 
but her placid face, and constant cheerfulness, 
told of a spirit which dwelt in a land of sun- 
shine. Whatever Fanny might say, Agnes 
felt that religion had not made the family at 
Woodville either gloomy or unhappy. 

The winter which succeeded the visit to 
Woodville was a very gay one with Agnes and 
her young friends, and amid the gaieties of the 
season, the impressions produced by that visit 
rapidly wore away. 

“ Have you heard the sad news ?” inquired 
]\Ir. Wilbur of his daughters on his return 
from his office one day in early spring. 

“What news, papa?” inquired Caroline. 

“About Fanny Steele.” 

Fanny Steele had been absent from the 
city some weeks on a visit to friends in 
Boston. 

“What of Fanny?” inquired Agnes with 
much interest. 

“ A telegram was received yesterday, stating 
8 


86 


WILBUR; OR, 


that she was very sick, having been seized 
with a sudden and violent attack of diphthe- 
ria. Her father and mother started immedi- 
ately for Boston. This morning her brother 
received a telegram that she was dead.” 

“ Dead ! Fanny dead !” exclaimed Agnes, 
turning very pale. “ Oh, papa, it cannot be ! 
Tell me it is not true.’’ 

“It is, alas, too true,” said Mr. Wilbur 
gravely, but observing the extreme paleness 
of Agnes, he added, “ Don’t agitate yourself, 
my dear. Perhaps I ought not to have told 
you so suddenly. You and Fanny have been 
so intimate I suppose she seems almost like a 
sister.” 

It was with Agnes something more than the 
shock usually caused by hearing of the sudden 
death of an intimate friend. A feeling of 
alarm and terror thrilled through every cham- 
ber of her soul. There suddenly flashed upon 
her the recollection of the conversation Avhich 
had passed between herself and Fanny on the 
day after her return from Woodville. She 


DA-TJOHTER’S IN’ELXJEIS'CE. S7 


remembered how very confidently Fanny had 
spoken of the future, and how she had said, 
that after years given to pleasure, there would 
then be time enough to become thoughtful and 
serious and to prepare to die. She remembered, 
too, how she had herself gradually settled 
down into the same conclusion, and banished 
from her mind all serious thoughts. How 
unsafe and untruthful had this conclusion been 
in the case of her friend. Could she be sure 
that it would be any more safe or truthful in 
her own case ? 

Life had seemed like one gala-day to Agnes 
that winter. Now it put on a very different 
aspect. She was like one aroused from a 
pleasant dream by some sudden and violent 
shock. She noAV saw that life was full of un- 
certainties, dangers, and fearful possibilities. 
Was it safe to live in such a world without a 
shield of protection ? and could that shield be 
secured? Agnes thought of the family at 
Woodville, and felt that it had been secured 
by them. She thought of Aunt Martha, on 


88 


A-GISTES WIEBTjrt; OR, 


that bed of sickness, calmly awaiting the ap- 
proach of the last great enemy, yet not to her 
an enemy, but a messenger to conduct her to 
the heavenly city of which she so much de- 
lighted to hear and speak, and she felt sure 
that this sense of security was shared at least 
by her uncle and aunt and her cousin Walter. 
Fanny had spoken of seeking for it in years 
to come, years which now, alas ! could never 
come to her, and Agnes felt that she herself 
had been no wiser. 

The Bible was once more taken from its 
usual place, and, this time, it was read. But 
the reading of it gave little satisfaction. Ag- 
nes thought what a treasure that book was to 
Aunt INIartha, and how she had said that she 
always felt more comfortable when it was 
within her reach, but she W'as painfully con- 
scious that the reading of it did not make her 
comfortable. She remembered how Walter 
had spoken of holding it up daily, as a light 
to show him where to place his feet, but she 
felt that it did not enlighten her path. If it 


i:)^XJGHITER,’S ITsTELXJENCE. 89 

had any effect, it was to make her more sensi- 
ble of the darkness by which she was sur- 
rounded. 

Sometimes it was read and sometimes ne- 
glected, but whether read or neglected, Agnes 
continued to feel uneasy and unhappy. Sud- 
denly aroused from her dream of security and 
pleasure, she could not sleep again. 


X. 


A WELCOME INVITATIOy. 

EEKS passed with little change. Agnes 



T T could not return to her old life of 
thoughtless security, yet she felt that she was 
making no progress toward a new and better 


one, 


She had many serious thoughts, and some- 
how these were all connected, not only with 
the sudden death of her friend, but also with 
recollections of her visit to Woodville, and 
she began to feel a strong desire to pay a 
second visit to that pleasant country home. 
She fancied that the Bible would seem to her 
a different book, if she could read it to Aunt 
ISIartha in her room, or if she could hear it from 
her uncle’s lips. If she could be in Wood- 
ville, she might there find what she sought, 


90 


^ r>ATJ&IITER,’S ITvTELXJElSrCE. 91 

and certainly did not know how to find where 
she was. But she kept the wish to herself, 
for she felt sure that her mother and sister 
would not favor it. 

Early in the summer Agnes had a letter 
from her aunt, containing a kind invitation 
to visit them again. This letter gave her 
courage to speak, and say how much she 
wished to accept the invitation. 

“ It is absurd for you to think of shutting 
yourself up in that out-of-the-way place,” 
said her mother. 

“ If you were not very stupid you would 
not wish it,” chimed in Caroline. 

“ If my sister likes to have Agnes with 
her, and she wishes to go, I do not see any 
objection to the plan,” said her father. 

Perhaps Mr. Wilbur had his own private 
reasons for favoring her going. Whether it 
was so or not, his decided approval overbore 
all opposition, and three or four weeks later 
Agnes commenced preparations for another 
visit to the farm-house. Her father could 


92 


■W'lHiBXJR, ; OR, 


not find it convenient to accompany her even 
so far as Boston, and he placed her in the care 
of some friends who were going there. 

This time it was not Walter, but Harry who 

met Agnes at the L station ; for Walter 

was absent from home completing his first 
year in college. 

Harry answered to the idea Agnes had 
formed of a farmer’s boy much better than 
Walter. He was a stout, sunburnt lad of fif- 
teen. Agnes and he had become fast friends 
the previous summer. Harry had never been 
from home, and he had not that ease and 
grace of manner, which, with Walter, was 
partly natural, and partly acquired by inter- 
course with the world. Still he was quite 
agreeable in his own way, and Agnes liked 
her hearty, good-tempered and obliging cousin. 

Harry had a genuine liking for farm work 
and farm life. Agnes had more than once 
heard him say, that, as Charles and Walter 
had left, he should remain at home. Charles 
might be a Western farmer, and Walter might 


-A. X>A.XJGmXER’S IT^EETJEI^CE. 93 


work with his brains, if he chose, but he 
would stay at home always, and keep the old 
farm up in good shape when his father should 
no longer be able to do it. 

When the cars stopped Agnes stepped out 

on the platform of the L station with 

feelings very different from those of one year 
before. She was not now going among stran- 
gers, but to those whom she had learned to 
know and love. The welcome she read in 
Harry’s face as he approached was to her an 
earnest of that she might hope to receive from 
the rest of the family. 

Agnes fell easdy and naturally into the mode 
of life with which she had become familiar 
the previous summer. One afternoon, as she 
was passing out of the back door with the in- 
tention of paying a visit to the garden, she 
met Harry in the portico. 

“ What, home at this time of day !” she 
said. 

Father wants me to go to L this af- 
ternoon, and ” 


94 


A^G-NES 'WIEBUR; OR, 


“xind what ?” said Agnes laughing. 

“ I think you can guess the rest. If you 
would like the ride, and don’t mind going in 
the long Avagon, I should enjoy your com- 
pany very much.” 

Agnes had received similar invitations 
before. She did not mind going in the long 
wagon, and she liked just such rides, so she 
readily accepted the offer, much to Harry’s 
satisfaction, as was quite evident. 

Agnes had been in Woodville just two 
weeks. She had found the family quite un- 
changed with the exception of the absence of 
Walter. Her aunt was as quiet and cheerful 
as ever. Aunt Martha as gentle and patient, 
Lucy as steady and industrious, and Susie as 
warm-hearted and impulsive. Agnes was 
conscious too, somewhat painfully conscious, 
that she also was unchanged. Sometimes, in- 
deed, when reading the Bible by Aunt Mar- 
tha’s bedside, or hearing it from her uncle’s 
lips, she had felt a momentar)’- glow of sym- 
pathetic feeling, but when she read it by 


A. DAUGHTEIt’S INEEXJElSrCE. 95 

herself, in her own room, she found in the 
reading of it neither light nor comfort. It 
was read each morning and night, but Agnes 
usually arose from these readings dissatisfied, 
if not positively unhappy. The dissatisfac- 
tion was caused by the consciousness that she 
had not found what she sought, and felt sure 
that others had found there. 

Agnes felt that she was unprepared for 
death and judgment, those solemn realities 
which had been pressed upon her attention by 
the sudden death of her friend, and she had 
come to Woodville with the secret hope that 
she should there find the peace of mind 
of which she felt the need. Her life was 
flowing on calmly and quietly; but if this 
calm and peaceful stream should suddenly 
plunge over the precipice, in the dark valley, 
into the ocean of eternity, would that event 
find her in reality better prepared than she 
would have been the previous winter amid the 
gaieties of her city home ? There had been 
no change in her during those two weeks 


96 


iVG3vrES WILBUR; OR, 


except a growing consciousness that, though 
she was beneath the same roof with these sin- 
cere and earnest Christians, though she was 
with them, she was not of them. She was 
beginning to learn that change of place was 
not change of heart. 

Agnes enjoyed the ride to L that after- 

noon, very much. 

“Are you ready to return?” she asked, when 
Harry had, as it seemed to her, accomplished 
the business which brought him there. 

“ Not quite,” said Harry. “ The cars will 
be here in about ten minutes. I think we 
had better go to the station, and wait there 
until we are sure that Walter is not on board.” 

“ I thought you did not expect Walter until 
Saturday.” 

“ I do not, but it is just possible that he 
may come to-day, and as we are here on the 
spot, I think we had better wait until the next 
train is in.” 

“We will wait by all means if there is a 
possibility that Walter may come.” 


^ D^XJGJ-HTER’S USTEETJEI^CE, 97 

Harry drew up near the track. 

“ Will your horse be quiet here when the 
train comes in ?” inquired Agnes. 

“ Oh, yes, he does not mind it at all.” 

They had not long to wait. In about five 
minutes they heard the cars approaching. 

» “There is Walter!” exclaimed Harry be- 
fore they had fairly stojjped. “ I thought the 
chance of his coming hardly worth waiting 
for. It would have been quite too bad if we 
had gone home and left him behind.” 

In another moment Walter was hastening 
towards them. 

“ I thought you would not expect me until 
Saturday,” he said to Harry after greetings 
had been interchanged. 

“We did not.” 

“ Why were you waiting here then ?” 

“ I came on some business for father, and 
as people sometimes arrive when they are 
not expected, I thought I would wait until 
the train came in.” 

“ It is very fortunate for me,” said Walter. 

9 


98 


A.&riTES 'VVILBUR.; OR, 


When they were within a mile and a half 
of home, Harry said to Walter, “ If you will 
drive on, I will get out here. I have some 
business with farmer Smith, and if I go there 
to-night, I shall not have to leave my work 
to come another day.” 

“We will drive round there if you wish 
it,” said Walter. 

“ No, it would hinder you at least half an 
hour. I can walk very well, and the home 
folks would be impatient enough for our com- 
iug if they knew that you were with us.” 

“I did not suppose that Woodville could 
present sufficient attractions to draw you here 
another summer, but I am happily disap- 
pointed,” said Walter to Agnes, after Harry 
had left them. 

“Aunt kindly invited me to come again, 
and I was very glad to accept the invitation. 
I enjoy the country at this season very much.” 

Agnes thought of those other considerations 
which had had no small influence, but it was 
not so easy to speak of them. 


A. r>A.XJ&HTER,’S IT^^FLXJEISrCE. 99 


Just at this moment they Avere passing a 
fine tree which grew on the margin of a small 
stream. 

“ What a beautiful tree/’ said Agnes. 

“ Does it remind you of anything ?” 

“Nothing in particular.” 

“ I seldom see such a tree without thinking 
of the Avords, ‘And he shall be like a tree 
planted by the rivers of Avater, that bringeth 
forth his fruit in his season ; his leaf also shall 
not AAuther; and Avdiatsoever he doetli shall 
prosper.’ ” 

“ That verse is in the Psalms, is it not ?” 
inquired Agnes. 

“Yes, in the first Psalm. Have you brought 
your Pible with you this time ?” 

“ A^es.” 

“ I am glad of it.” 

“ I AA'ant you to help me to understand it.” 

“ I fear I can give you little help.” 

“ Oh, yes. I am sure you can help me a 
great deal.” 

“ You overestimate my abilities, or rather, 


100 


^GTsTES WILBXJR. 


I suspect that you do not correctly estimate 
the kind and amount of help you need.” 

The kind and amount of help I need,” 
repeated Agnes, to herself, perplexed to un- 
derstand his meaning. 

“ Do you wish to know where to find 
help?” inquired Walter, after a little pause. 

“ Certainly I do.” 

Walter drew up under the shade of a large 
tree, and taking his memorandum book from 
his pocket he wrote, on a loose piece of paper 
which it contained, a reference to three pas- 
sages of Scripture. 

“Perhaps this will explain the remark just 
made,” he said, as he handed the paper to 
Agnes. “You can, if you please, look out 
and study these passages at your leisure,” 


XL 


TBE GJtEAT SEZPEIt. 

HEN Agnes opened her Bible that night 



t f she thought of the slip of paper given 
to her by Walter, and drew it from her 
pocket. Looking out the passages referred to, 
she read, “Thy hands have made me and 
fashioned me ; give me understanding that I 
may learn thy commandments.” “But the 
Comforter, which is the Holy Gliost, whoin 
the Father will send in my name, he shall 
teach you all things, and bring all things to 
your remembrance, whatsoever I have said 
unto you.” “If ye then, being evil know" 
how to give good gifts unto your children ; 
how much more shall your heavenly Father 
give the Holy Spirit to them that ask him ?” 

Agnes read these verses again and again, 
thoughtfully, carefully, and with a growing 
9 » 101 


102 


^GISTES WIEBXJIt; OR, 


appreciation of tlieir aj)plication to her own 
case. That morning she had read the words, 
More to be desired are they than gold, yea, 
than much fine gold, sweeter also than honey 
and the honeycomb.” 

“ I am sure Aunt hlartha can say that,” 
had been her mental comment, and she was 
equally sure that she could not say it. She 
knew that to Aunt hlartha the Word of God 
was a fountain of life, light, consolation and 
joy. She, herself, had read that Word, dili- 
gently and statedly for a number of weeks, 
but it had not become sweet to her taste or 
life to her soul. Was not Walter right in his 
suspicion that she had formed an incorrect 
estimate of the kind and amount of help she 
needed ? Did she not need more than a hu- 
* man helper? Did she not need divine light 
and illumination? It must be so; yet this 
conclusion was very unwelcome to her proud, 
unhumbled spirit. 

Agnes had come to Woodville with the 
expectation of doing a great deal for herself. , 



“It is very kind of you to bring tlicin to me.” 

p. 59. 





A. DATJGHXEIt’S IJSTEL-QENXDE. 103 

She had felt the need of a change of charac- 
ter. Surrounded by favorable influences, and 
aided by her kind and Christian friends, she 
had hoped, by her own diligent efforts, to work 
out this important change. She was now 
compelled to admit that she had made no real 
progress. * 

Was she then so utterly weak and powerless? 
IVIust she come as a humble beggar, and ask 
for that divine influence without which 
her own efforts would be unavailing ? Her 
heart rebelled against this humbling con- 
clusion, and then she was startled at the rebel- 
liSius thoughts and feelings of which she was 
conscious. She had hoped to grow a great 
deal better during her stay in Woodville, but 
instead of that, she was, as it seemed to her, 
groAving worse. Her mind was filled with 
doubts, perplexities and questionings. She 
thought she would like to know how Walter 
would answer some of these inquiries, and she 
resolved that she would introduce the subject 
the next day, should a favorable opportunity 


104 


AGTsES WIT^BUR; OR, 


offer. No such opportunity occurred, at least 
none that she regarded as such. 

Agnes saw a great deal of Walter the next 
day, and never before had he proved a more 
agreeable friend and companion. He had 
much to tell her of college life, and college 
friends, particularly of one Alfred Reed, his 
class-mate and room-mate of whom he spoke 
with all the enthusiasm of a warm and gener- 
ous friendship. 

“You should have brought him home with 
you, that we might see him,” said Agnes. 

“ I would gladly have done so, but he 1^1 
other engagements, and besides, my own stay 
must necessarily be so short.” 

“ How short ?” inquired Agnes. 

“ I must leave on Monday.” 

“ So soon !” 

“Yes, I have an engagement which will 
occupy all the vacation with the exception of 
the last week, which I hope to spend at 
home.” 

The next day Walter gave Agnes the op- 


A. DAXJ&HTEIi’S IjSTEEXJEIS'CE. 105 


j)ortunity for whicli she had waited, by asking, 
somewhat abruptly, if she had looked out the 
verses to whieh he referred her. 

“ Yes,” said Agnes. 

“What impression did you receive from 
them ?” 

“I hardly know. In fact I don’t know 
what to think of anything.” 

“ What am I to understand by that ?” 

“If we are so helpless and dependent what 
is the use of trying to do any thing?” 

“ There is a great deal of use in seeking to 
obey the commands of Him who stands ready 
to heal us. On one occasion, when Christ 
would restore sight to the blind, he bade the 
man go, w'ash in the pool of Siloam, and ‘ he 
went, and washed, and came seeing.’ Do you 
suppose that bathing in that pool could of 
itself restore sight to those sightless orbs ?” 

“ Of course not.” 

“ Do you think that man would have been re- 
stored to sight, had he refused to obey the com- 
mand of Jesus to go and wash in that pool?” 


106 


WIEBUR; OB, 


“ I suppose not.” 

“ The means of grace, — prayer, reading the 
Scriptures and public ordinances — are to us 
the pool of Siloam. They cannot of them- 
selves cure us of sin, but they are the ap- 
pointed means by which the great Healer will 
work the cure. In them we must seek Him. 
In the use of these means, we must strive, 
agonize, to enter in at the strait gate.” 

“This insisting both upon obligation and 
dependence perplexes me,” said Agnes. 

“ It has perplexed many others.” 

“ How am I to escape from it ?” 

“ There is only one safe way, — by yielding 
the soul up to Jesus to be ruled and saved by 
Kim.” 

“I fear I shall never understand these 
things,” 

“Do you not think the prayer of the 
Psalmist an appropriate one for you ? ‘ Thy 

hands have made me, and fashioned me; give 
me understanding, that I may learn thy com- 
mandments?’ ” 


A. DA-TJOHTER’S II^^EEXJElSrCE. 107 

When Agnes first found her'self-relknce 
and her confidence in her own efforts shaken, 
she thought not only to lay them aside, but 
with them also her sense of personal obli- 
gation ; but this conversation with Walter 
convinced her of the peril of yielding to such 
a feeling and purpose. She felt that she might 
not choose her own waiting place,” and there 
remain until Jesus of Nazareth passed by, but 
she must ask if there was not some pool of 
Si loam to which He had bidden her resort. 

Her doubts and perplexities were not, by 
any means, put to rest. They increased rather 
than diminished during the two weeks suc- 
ceeding Walter’s departure. She could not 
say, 

“Just as I am, though tossed about 
With many a conflict, many a doubt, 

Fightings within, and fears without ; 

O Lamb of God, I come 1” 

But the tossings, the conflicts, the doubts were 
hers, though for a time they remained hidden 
in her own bosom. 


108 


WILBUR; OR, 


One day, 'when her mind 'vvas more than 
usually troubled, she formed a sudden resolu- 
tion to go to Aunt Martha, and open her 
•whole heart. She thought she could speak to 
her more freely than to any one else unless it 
was AValter, and he was not at home. 

Sitting by the bedside, she told all. She 
referred to the impression made upon her by 
the first visit to Woodville, and how it had 
been partially effaced by a winter of pleasure. 
She told of the sudden death of her friend, 
and how her own heart had been filled with 
alarm and terror; that she had come to Wood- 
ville hoping to find that of which she felt a 
conscious need, and had hoped by daily inter- 
course with her Christian friends to become 
like them, but had been disappointed, and 
instead of becoming better, had been growing 
worse and worse. 

“I see how it is,” said Aunt Martha. 
“ You have come to Woodville for help, in- 
stead of going to Jesus, who is the true helper 
of all anxious, inquiring hearts. 


A. DA-TJCmTER’S IN-EETJENCE. 109 


‘ None but Jesus, 

Can do helpless sinners good.’ 

He is every v/here — as near you in New York 
as in Woodville.” 

“ I could not find him there.” 

“ And you have not found him here.” 

“Oh, no, I cannot find him anywhere,” - 
said Agnes, very sadly. 

“ Are you sure that you came here to seek 
Him?” 

Agnes replied only by an inquiriug look. 

“ Did you not come hoping here to find a 
change of character, preparation for dete^th, 
and the aid of Christian friends ?” 

“ I certainly did hope to find these things.” 

“ We often begin by seeking many things, 
but we must learn that we have but one thing 
to seek, and that is, a personal interest in a 
personal Saviour. God’s gift to man is not a 
change of character, preparation for death, or 
a hope of heaven. Jesus is his gift to us. 
All else is included in this one gift. In Him 
we find pardon, sanctification and eternal life. 

10 


110 


AGlSrES WILBUR,; OR, 


You have no doubt been disappointed and 
have not received from your Christian friends 
the aid you expected.” 

“That is true,” said Agnes. “Walter for 
instance, has more than once showed me where 
I was wrong, but he has not showed me just 
how to get right.” 

“ In these things our friends can aid us only 
in a very limited degree. In the hour of our 
dissolution, friends, however tender and kind 
they may be, can accompany us only to the 
margin of death’s cold stream. If we pass 
over with joy and triumph it will be because 
we are sustained not by human, but by divine 
aid. As it is in the hour of our death, so it 
is also in the hour of our spiritual birth. 
There is a line which divides guilt, condemna- 
tion and eternal death from pardon, redemp- 
tion and eternal life. Yo human friend can 
take us by the hand and conduct us over this 
line. Only the hand of Jesus can lead us 
safely over. The soul must deal only with 
its God and Redeemer in the hour when it 


A. r>AXJGHTER,’S IN'Ii’L-QEN’CE. HI 

receives and embraces the great salvation. 
Seek Jesus. Seek him only. Seek him with 
all your heart, and he will reveal liimself to 
your soul.” 

Though this was the first time Agnes had 
spoken freely to Aunt Martha, it was by no 
means the last. Often did she repair to her 
room to read the Bible and converse on those 
subjects which were now of all-absorbing in- 
terest to her. Jesus was ever the theme with 
Aunt Martha, Jesus — “the way, the truth 
and the life,” “ who of God is made unto us 
wisdom, and righteousness, and sanctification, 
and redemption.” 

After a time light broke in upon the dark 
mind of Agnes, as it will sooner or later upon 
the benighted soul of every earnest, sincere 
seeker, and she was enabled to yield herself 
up to Jesus to be saved and ruled by him. 
She saw how in him alone was to be found 
all she had been seeking, not only pardon for 
the past, but grace to live a new life, and be- 
come both in faith and practice a true discij)le. 


XII. 

FJRESEKT EUTIES. 

“ T ORD, what wilt thou have me to do?” 

Jj is a question which has fallen from the 
lips, or found a place in the heart, of every 
sincere convert since it was asked by him who 
on his way to Damascus met his Lord. 

AVhen Agnes first began to feel the sweet 
peace of yielding herself up to be saved and 
ruled by Him who had given his life for her, 
it was not long before she began to ask what 
she could do for Him who had done so much 
for her. This question, like many others, was 
carried to Aunt Martha’s room, and talked 
over with this faithful Christian friend. The 
tie was very strong which united these two, 
the aged pilgrim awaiting the coming of her 
Lord on a bed of sickness and suffering, and 
112 


A nD^XJOHTEH’S USTELUElSrCE. 113 

the youthful disciple just starting on the race 
which the other had almost run. 

It was natural for the thoughts of Agnes 
to turn to the poor, degraded and ignorant of 
her own city, and in the warmth of her first 
love she began to form various plans for use- 
fulness in this field of labor. 

These were freely communicated to Aunt 
Martha, who listened with deep interest to all 
that Agnes had to say. She was rejoiced to 
find her thoughts turned in this direction, and 
gladly gave her all the encouragement which 
her warm sympathy and approbation could 
afford. After a time, however, she began to 
fear that Agnes was falling into an error very 
common with the young, and not uncommon 
with those of older years. 

One day when these future benevolent efforts 
had been the theme of conversation she said, 

I am glad to see you laying out work for 
yourself after your return home, but will you 
allow me to give you one caution, for danger 
lurks here as everywhere ?” 


114 


^&]SrES 'WILBXJR; OR, 


What danger ?” inquired Agnes. 

“It is a lesson I have learned in life’s 
school. I have there been taught that the ques- 
tion we should ask earnestly and seriously is, 
What is present duty? the duty of the present 
day and hour? We should not allow thoughts 
of the future, nor even plans of usefulness in 
it to divert our minds from this question. 
The future is all uncertain. God may have 
work before us very different from anything 
we ever imagined. It is right for us to form 
plans for usefulness in the time to come. In- 
deed I think it is our duty. But our first care 
should always be to ascertain present duty, 
and strive faithfully to perform it, for the 
present only is ours.” 

“ It seems as if there was very little for me 
to do here,” said Agnes. 

“ I think you must be mistaken about that. 
God never places his children where he does 
not require bf them some duty, or some special 
preparation for duties immediately before 
them.” 


D-A.TJGHia?ER’S IlNrEEUEI>rCE. 115 


‘‘What present duty do you think I am 
neglecting?” Agnes asked earnestly, after a 
thoughtful silence. 

“I do not believe that you are wilfully 
and knowingly neglecting any duty.” 

“ Then what duty am I ignorantly neglect- 
ing ?” said Agnes, still pressing the question. 

“ I do not consider myself qualified to answer 
that question. Carry it to your , Saviour, and 
he will show you the true answer,” said Aunt 
Martha, very gently. 

“ I think you have some particular thing 
in your mind,” said Agnes. “I wish you 
w’ould tell me what it is.” 

“I could tell you in what direction my 
thoughts have been running, but it might be 
taking too much liberty, and you may regard 
it only as the old-fashioned notions of an old- 
fashioned woman.” 

“Oh, no, do tell me all about it. You 
have had so much experience, and I am so 
young and inexperienced.” 

“ I am quite willing to give you the benefit 


116 


WIEEUR; OR, 


of what I know, where it can be of any use 
to you. We were talking about the mission- 
schools a little while ago. If we should 
receive a visit from a superintendent or an 
experienced teacher in one of these schools, 
would you not seek to obtain all the informa- 
tion you could to prepare yourself for future 
labors in this field ? and would you not even 
regard it as a duty to do this ?” 

“ Certainly I should,” said Agnes. 

“ There is another field of labor which it is 
highly probable you may be called to occupy. 
At no distant day, the comfort, welfare and 
happiness of a household may depend upon 
you. Have you made preparations to occupy 
this field of labor, and obtained the necessary 
knowledge and skill? Do you think you 
would make a good housekeeper ?” 

“ Oh, no, indeed ! I am as ignorant as a 
child. In fact, Susie knows a great deal more 
than I do.” 

“ I suppose some would consider it an old- 
fashioned notion, but it seems to me that 


A. DATJO-HTER’S IN-ELUENCE. 117 

every female should know how to perform 
these domestic duties. Those who are wealthy 
require this knowledge to direct the labors of 
others. In the country it is, I am sure, quite 
indispensable to the mistress of a family, and 
I have been told that some city ladies are 
almost the slaves of impertinent and extrava- 
gant servants, because they cannot do without 
them, and are conscious that they are not 
capable of training those to fill their places 
who are more ignorant but less impudent and 
exacting.” 

“No doubt,” said Agnes, “this is sometimes 
the case, but it is not so in our family. I am 
sure my mother knows very little about these 
things. Her health is so delicate that she 
cannot be burdened with care, but leaves 
everything to the servants, yet we get along 
very well. Father will have good servants, 
and when we find those that are good, he 
makes it for their interest to remain with us.” 

“There are exceptions to all rules,” said 
Aunt Martha, “still I think that one who has 


118 


AGNES -WILBUR; OR, 


a thorough knowledge of domestic affairs is 
more independent, self-reliant and useful than 
one who has not, and surely these are things 
which a Christian woman should desire. Be- 
sides, there are so many changes in this coun- 
try that those who are wealthy cannot be sure 
of remaining so, and if riches should take to 
themselves wings, and fly away, such know- 
ledge would prove invaluable.” 

“ I have no doubt that it is very desirable 
to have a thorough knowledge of these 
things,” said Agnes. “ I have often wished 
that I knew as much about them as Aunt 
Lucy.” 

“ A^our aunt is one of the best housekeepers 
I ever knew. Might it not be well to take 
some lessons of her?” 

“ I never thought of that before.” 

“ Perhaps there are some things you might 
learn here better than at home.” 

“A great deal better. Our domestic ar- 
rangements are such that it would be almost 
impossible for me to learn anything there.” 


A. DAUGHTER’S IN-EEUET>rCE. 119 


“ Present opportunities point to present du- 
ties,” Aunt Martha remarked. 

“ I believe it is so,” said Agnes thought- 
fully. “ I am glad you have suggested my 
taking lessons of Aunt Lucy. I will talk 
with her about it.” 

Aecordingly Agnes embraced the first fa- 
vorable opportunity to mention the subject to 
her aunt. 

“ Will you be so kind as to give me some 
lessons in the art and practice of housekeep- 
ing?” she asked, after relating what had 
passed between herself and Aunt Martha. 

“I will see what I can do, if you will 
promise to be very patient and teachable,” 
said her aunt smiling, and then she added 
more gravely, “ I think Aunt Martha is quite 
right, and it will give me pleasure if I can be 
of any service to you in this respect.” 

Agnes did not forget her intention to take 
lessons of her aunt, but it seemed awkward to 
begin, so several days passed and the first les- 
son was not taken. 


120 


AGISTES WIEBXJR; OR, 


“ Shall you have anything nice for me to 
cany to Mary Fisher this afternoon?” in- 
quired Agnes of her aunt the next Saturday 
morning. 

“ You may carry her a custard if you will 
make it yourself,” said her aunt with an arch 
look. 

“I know what that means,” said Agnes. 
“You think that I am not making much 
progress in the art of cooking.” 

“ We must begin before we can make pro- 
gress.” 

“ Yes, and I have not even begun. Well, 
I will make the custard if you will tell me 
just how to do it.” 

“ I will tell you on one condition.” 

“What is that?” 

“You must promise to make another, next 
Saturday, without any assistance or direction. 
You see that I intend to make an independent 
and self-reliant housekeeper of you.” 

Agnes accepted the condition though not 
without some misgivings as to the fate of the 


A. DATJO-HTER-’S IT^-EEXJElSrCE. 121 


second custard. She noted carefully all her 
aunt’s directions, knowing that they must serve 
not only for the present occasion, but also for 
future use. 

That afternoon she had the pleasure of carry- 
ing to her invalid friend a custard made by 
her own hands. The next Saturday brought 
the still greater pleasure of presenting one 
which was the product of her own unaided 
skill. A cup of this was carried to Aunt 
Martha’s room, and received with expressions 
of surprise, pleasure and warm approbation 
which were to Agnes a rich reward. 

11 


XIII. 


THE FIEST SOEEOW. 

ALTER’S vacation was drawing to a 



T T close. The last week of it was spent 
at home. Agnes had anticipated this week 
with much pleasure. She had always liked 
her cousin so far as she had been able to un- 
derstand him, but his highest as})irations, the 
object of his ambition, she had indeed very 
imperfectly understood. Now she was pre- 
pared in some degree to appreciate it. 

"Walter, on his part, was rejoiced at every 
indication of the change in his cousin. He 
had such an easy and natural way of leading 
the convei’sation to those subjects, that Agnes 
could speak to him of her new-born hopes, 
fears and struggles with more freedom than 
to any one besides, unless it was Aunt Martha. 


122 


A. D A. X7 OUTER’S IlSTELUEISrCE. 123 


The days passed pleasantly and rapidly 
until but one remained. 

I must go and see Mary Fisher this after- 
noon,” said Agnes, to her aunt on tlie last day 
but one of this brief visit. “ I have not been 
there since Walter came, and I fear that she 
will miss me.” 

“ I do not doubt that your calls are a great 
pleasure and benefit to her,” said Mrs. Carry 1. 

“ I am the one benefitted,” said Agnes. “ I 
learn something every time I go there.” 

“I don’t doubt it; but what dp you suppose 
Mary would think if she could hear you say 
that?” 

“ I don’t know, indeed. She is so humble 
and modest that I suppose she never enter- 
tained the idea that any one could learn from 
her.” 

The visits of Agnes to the humble home 
of Sarah and Mary Fislier had become quite 
frequent. Pity and sympathy had first di- 
rected her steps thither. She saw that her 
calls gave pleasure, and she wished to relieve 


124 


AGNES WILBUR; OR, 


some of the lonely hours of the seeluded 
invalid. Of late she had felt at eaeh visit 
that she was reeeiving more than she gave. 
Mary was hardly her senior in years, but in 
the severe school of afHiction she had obtained 
a ripened Christian experience, and Agnes 
seldom saw her without feeling that she had 
learned some sweet lesson of gentleness and 
patience, or of love and trust. 

On her return from this visit, she was met 
by Susie at some distance from the house. 

“What do you think mother has got?” said 
Susie. 

I don’t know. What is it ?” 

“ A letter from your father.” 

“A letter from father!” repeated Agnes.’ 

“ A’es, mother did not say it was from him 
but I know it is.” 

“ How do you know it ?” 

“ It looked like one of his letters. Wood- 
ville was written just as he writes it.” 

“Was it directed to your mother?” 

“Yes.” 


A. DAXJGHrER’S IT^TELUEN-CE. 125 

“I think you must be mistaken about it. 
Father directs all his letters to me when I am 
here.” 

“ I am not mistaken,” said Susie, very pos- 
itively. “I was out in the yard, and heard 
some one call me. Looking around, I saw 
James Newman standing by the gate with a 
letter in his hand. He had been to the post- 
office, and finding a letter there for mother, 
he had brought it along.” 

Agnes quickened her pace. There seemed 
a little mystery about this letter, which she 
hoped would be explained when she reached 
the house. ^ 

She found her aunt busy with her sewing, 
looking, as she thought, a little graver than 
usual, but making no allusion to the letter 
which had been received. Agnes waited 
awhile, hoping she would mention it, but 
finding that she did not, she could restrain 
her impatient curiosity no longer. 

“ Susie tells me that you have a letter from 
father.” 


11 * 


126 


A.GNES WILBUR; OR, 


“ How does Susie know ?” 

“ She thinks it is so. Is she mistaken ?” 

“ No,” the answer came slowly, reluctantly, 
as Agnes thought. Her fears were awakened. 

“Is anything the matter?” she asked 
quickly. “Are they all well ?” 

“Yes, quite well, I believe, or at least in 
usual health.” 

There was evidently something behind. 
Before Agnes could frame a question to elicit 
the information she desired, Walter entered 
from an adjoining room. 

“Have you been to see Mary Fisher this 
afternoon ?” he asked. ^ 

“ I have,” replied Agnes half indifferently, 
for her thoughts were on the letter. 

“ How did you find her ?” 

“ Suffering very much ; it is one of her bad 
days,” said Agnes with more of interest in 
her tone and manner. 

“ Poor Mary ! she is one of those who can 
truly say that they have been chosen in the 
furnace of affliction.” 


A. DAXJ&HTER’S IlSTEI^XJENCE. 127 


^‘Yes, indeed. Such trials must be very- 
hard to bear. It seems to me as if I could 
never bear trials.” 

]\Irs. Cariyl looked up suddenly with an 
anxious, troubled glance, which was not unob- 
served by Agnes. 

“We must all learn to bear them. We 
need them so much that we cannot hope to 
escape affliction’s furnace,” said Walter, but 
there was in his tone an accent of tender pity 
as percej)tible to Agnes as her aunt’s anxious 
glance had been. 

At this moment, Susie, who had not entered 
the house with Agnes, came bounding into 
the room. Running up to her cousin, she 
asked, 

“ Has mother showed you that letter yet ?” 

“You must go to Aunt Martha’s room and 
see if she don’t want something,” said Mrs. 
Carryl quietly. 

Susie, who had been trained to prompt obe- 
dience, left the room without asking any more 
questions. 


128 


AGT^ES -WILBUR; OR, 


“I have the letter in my pocket,” said 
Walter. “ Do you wish to see it ?” 

Oh yes.” 

He drew it from his pocket. Agnes held 
out her hand for it, but Walter retained it 
for a moment. 

“I have a message for you from Aunt 
Martha, who knows its contents,” he said. 
“ She bade me tell you to read it at the feet 
of Jesus.” 

Agnes was much alarmed by Aunt Martha’s 
message. 

“What is the matter? What has hap- 
pened ?” she said. “Aunt told me that they 
were all well.” 

“ They are quite well, but trouble comes in 
various forms. This letter will be to you a 
furnace of affliction and you Avill need help 
to bear it.” 

Agnes was about to open it with trembling 
haste, but recollecting Aunt Martha’s message, 
she arose and took it to her own room. After 
lifting up her heart in a brief petition for the 


-A. DA.XJG-IITEIt’S IlSTEETJETiTOE. 129 

help she had been forewarned that she would 
need, she opened and read it. 

It contained startling intelligence for which 
Agnes was entirely unprepared. It spoke of 
commercial disasters and losses, ending in total 
ruin, of a dark cloud which had been lower- 
ing for months, and had now burst in a sud- 
den and desolating storm. 

Agnes paused for a moment in an effort to 
realize all that was comprehended in this brief 
statement. “ I am a poor man now,” were 
the first words she read when her eyes again 
fell upon the letter. “ My business is broken 
up, house and furniture must be sold, very 
little if anything will be saved from the 
wreck. I must begin again just where I be- 
gan long years ago. 

“ This will be bitter intelligence for Agnes. 
Acquaint her with it in the best way you can. 
For myself I would not mind, but when I 
think of my wife and daughters, I feel as if 
I could not bear it. I had thought not only 
to shield them from deprivation and want, but 


130 AGT^TES WILBUR; OR, 

also to surround them with tlie luxuries to 
which they have ever been aecustomed. As 
a man, I would not complain, but as a hus- 
band and father, I must feel that it is a cruel 
fate.” 

At first Agnes was almost stunned by the 
blow. It was not only very hard to bear, but 
also so new, strange and unlooked for. She 
had never cast a thought in that direction, 
never entertained a fear that her father might 
lose his M’calth. Always aceustomed to luxu- 
ries and eleganeies', they ' were regarded as 
necessaries. How strange to think of being 
separated from these belongings which seemed 
a part of herself. 

Had Agnes received this intelligence the 
previous summer, she would have felt that she 
was stripped of everything that could make 
life desirable. Then, her chief object was 
pleasure and self-indulgence. Then, the feel- 
ing would have been, “Ye have taken away 
my gods, and what have I more ?” 

But within the last few months, and espec- 


A D^TJOHTER’S IlSTEI^TJEN-CE. 131 

ially the last few weeks, her soul had opened 
to new views of life’s high and noble purpose. 
She had felt that its true end was something 
far better and nobler than mere pleasure and 
self-gratification. 

She had viewed the Christian life also in 
its severer aspects. Slie had heard her Saviour 
say, “ Whosoever will come after me, let him 
deny himself, and take up liis cross, and follow 
me,” and her soul had responded, “ Lord, 
strengthen, help me, and I will take up my 
cross and follow thee.” She had seen how 
Christians are sometimes' tried and afflicted, 
and had read, “AWiom the Lord loveth he 
chasteneth, and scourgeth every son whom he 
receiveth.” 

She had thought of these things until life 
could never again seem to her like a summer’s 
day to be spent in the pursuit of pleasure. 
She had seriously contemplated not only its 
duties, but also its trials. These, however, 
especially the latter, had been viewed in the 
dimness and indistinctness of the far distance, 


132 AGONES WIEBUE; OB, 

but now they stood before her as stem and 
present realities. The cross lay directly in her 
path, and her Saviour, by his providence, was 
calling upon her to take it up and bear it after 
him. 

Again Agnes read the letter and her atten- 
tion was diverted not only from all selfish, but 
from all personal considerations by her father’s 
words. “ Poor father ! how he suffers, not 
for himself, but for us,” she thought. “ If I 
were at home, I would hide my own sorrow 
that I might comfort him.” 

Then she thought of her mother and sister. 
How would they bear it ? They would see 
no bow in the cloud, no silver lining. These 
thoughts reminded her of her own privileges 
as a child of God. The promise was sure, 
“ When thou passest through the waters I will 
be with thee; and through the rivers, they 
shall not overflow thee: when thou walkest 
through the fire, thou shalt not be burned ; 
neither shall the flame kindle upon thee. For 
I am the Lord thy God, the Holy One of 


^ D^XJ»PITEri’S INFLXJElSrCE. 133 

Israel, thy Saviour.” He who had spoken 
these words was her Saviour and Eedeemer, 
her rock, and her strength. 

These thoughts brought the tears to her 
eyes. They were tender and soothing tears, 
because they flowed not from the hard, bitter 
sorrow of the world, but from sorrow mingled 
with trust, love and submission. 

12 


XIV. 


WOJtK FOR JESUS. 


HILE Agnes was thus struggling with 



T t her first sorrow, she was not forgotten 
by her kind relatives. Her father had re- 
quested them to make the sorrow known to 
her in the best way they could, but they had 
felt, as many others have done, how impossible 
it is to communicate heavy tidings so as to 
render them light. 

“ I wonder what they are doing now at 
home,” said Agnes, to alter, the next morn- 
ing; then suddenly recollecting herself, she 
added, sadly, “ It is hard to realize that I 
have, in truth, no home. How strange to 
think that so much which has seemed like a 
part of my very self has passed away like a 
dream.” 


134 


A. X)A.XJGHITEIi’S UnTFLXJENCE. 135 


“It must be very hard,” said Walter, in a 
tone of deep sympathy. “Hoav true it is 
that ‘ no chastening for the present seemeth to 
be joyous, but grievous;’ but it is equally 
true that, ‘ afterward it yieldeth the peaceable 
fruit of righteousness unto them which are 
exercised thereby.’ ” 

“ Do you remember what you said to me 
last summer after I returned from my first 
visit to Mary Fisher ?” 

“ Not exactly. I think I remember some- 
thing about it.” 

“ We were speaking of Maiy and of Aunt 
Martha, and you said that the natural effect 
of sorrow and trial was changed when it was 
sanctified by the grace of God. You said, 
also, that every Christian must sooner or later 
pass through the furnace of atfiiction. I have 
thought of this often, since I have ventured 
to hope that I have entered upon the Chris- 
tian life. If these trials are common to all, I 
know that I must, sooner or later, meet them, 
but I did not think it would be so soon.” 


136 


AONES WILBUE; OR, 


“We need refining so much that our Saviour 
cannot long delay the commencement of the 
process. Probably you cannot realize it now, 
but I have no doubt that the time will come 
when you will bless God for this very trial.” 

“ If I could only feel right. Last night, 
after a conflict, I thought I had yielded my 
will to God’s will, and felt no disposition to 
murmur or complain. But I have thought, 
of so many things since that time. Some new 
trial, disappointment, or mortification, is con- 
tinually presenting itself to my mind, and 
then I am tempted again to murmur and re- 
pine until I fear that I have had no right 
feelings, no true submission.” 

“ Do you indulge these rebellious feelings?” 

“ I don’t know,” said Agnes hesitatingly. 

“ I will put the question in another form. 
Do you really wish to cherish them in your 
heart?” 

“ Oh, no, I am sure I do not. I know that 
whatever God does is right and I do wish to 
submit my will to his will.” 


A- D^UCBHITER’S IjSTELTJENCE. 137 

“ God lias permitted this for your good, but 
Satan wishes you to distrust his wisdom and 
love, and rebel against his will. This is his 
desire, and he is too much in earnest about it 
to give it up for one defeat. You cannot 
meet and vanquish your great enemy in a 
single conflict. He will avail himself of each 
new disappointment or mortification to renew 
the strife, but if you continually resist him, 
and go to Jesus for help, you will conquer at 
last. The victory last night was not a final 
one, but it was an earnest of your complete 
triumph.” 

Agnes was comforted by this conversation 
with Walter, but she was saddened also by 
the thought that it was the last, for he must 
that day leave them to return to college, and 
she would no longer have the pleasure of his 
society to divert her mind from sad and gloomy 
thoughts. 

“ I am not sure but I ought to return home 
at once,” Agnes said to her aunt the day after 
Walter left. “ It seems hardly right that I 


138 


A&NES WIEBXJR,; OR, 


should be here, as it were away from all the 
trouble, when father, mother and Carrie are 
in the midst of it. I shall write to father to- 
day, and ask him if he does not wish me to 
come back.” 

“ Write whatever is in your heart, my dear, 
but I expect to write also.” 

^‘And what will you write ? or is that an 
improper question ?” 

Not at all. I shall write how very, very 
glad I would be to keep you for a long time 
to come, but still we both desire to consult his 
wishes. When we get the answers to our 
letters I think the path of duty will be plain 
to you.” 

The letters were sent that afternoon and the 
replies were reeeived by an early mail. There 
•w'as a long letter for Agnes from Caroline, 
and a much shorter one from Mr. Wilbur to 
his sister. Caroline’s letter was filled with 
bitter regrets and sad lamentations. 

After Agnes had read it, she looked up and 
^ked, “ What does father say ?” 


A. DA-UGHTEIt’S INEEXJENCE. 139 

■ He has given you to me for the present. 
He says that he thinks it will be much better 
for you to remain here until they get settled 
in another home. He will write you soon. 
But you can read for yourself what he says,” 
handing her the letter. 

In the autumn Mr. Wilbur decided upon a 
removal from the city. A young man, a son 
of an old friend, had just opened a store in 
a country town. Having more capital than 
experience, and wishing to unite his share of 
the former with Mr. Wilbur’s share of the 
latter, he had proposed a partnership, and as 
nothing better had offered, the proposal had 
been accepted. 

Early in November Mr. Wilbur removed 
his family. Their faithful servant consented 
to accompany them. 

“ I am glad IMargaret is going with them,” 
said Agnes, after reading the letter which 
gave information of these particulars. “ She 
is a great manager. Mother and Carrie will 
ha.ve no care while she remains with them.” 


140 


WILBUR;. OR, 


Agnes received a very cordial invitation 
from her uncle and aunt to spend the winter 
with them. As her father fully approved 
of tlie plan the invitation was gladly accepted, 
for Agnes was reluctant to leave the Christian 
friends and privileges there enjoyed. Wood- 
ville now seemed more like home to her than 
the new home which she had never seen. 
Besides she felt her own weakness, and often 
asked herself what she could do without those 
hours of family Avorship, the pleasant and 
profitable convei*sations in Aunt ISIartha’s sick 
room, and the visits to the humble home of 
Sarah and ]\Iary Fisher. With those who 
lived only for this world would she not be- 
come worldly too ? 

The mind of Agnes had been so much 
occupied by the changes which had taken place 
in her father’s family, that the lessons she had 
2)lanned to take of her aunt Avere quite forgot- 
ten until she AA^as gently reminded of them by 
Aunt Martha. 

“ I liaA'e not thought of it this long time,” 


A. D^XIG-HTER’S IJ^^ELXJENCE. 141 


said Agnes. ‘‘I have had so much else to 
occupy my mind.” 

“ I know it,” said Aunt Martha, “ but now 
you have new inducements to acquire this 
knowledge and skill. T'ou may yet find them 
of great value in your father’s family.” 

“ I shall not have much use for them there. 
IMargaret manages everything. She has the 
entire control of kitchen alfairs, and I should 
get anything but tlianks if I were to attempt 
to interfere.” 

“ Margaret may not remain with you long.” 

“ I think she will. Carrie writes that she 
has i^romised to stay with us.” 

“ Such promises cannot be relied upon. 
Life is full of changes, and circumstances may 
arise to deprive you of Margaret. From 
what you have told me, I supj)osc your mother 
could not take the care of the family.” 

“ Oh, no ; her health has been very delieate 
for years. These troubles have made her 
worse. The last time Carrie wrote, mother 
had not left her room for three weeks.” 


142 


^GNES WILBUR; OR, 


“ Could your sister take the charge ?” 

“ No, indeed ; she is quite as ignorant as I 
am.” 

“ Then what would they do if they should 
lose Margaret ?” 

“ I suppose father would have to get some 
one in her place.” 

“ It might be very diflBcult to find any one 
to fill her place. In many country places it 
is almost or quite impossible to obtain those 
who are competent to take charge of the do- 
mestic affairs. I have known families who 
needed such help, suffer very much discomfort 
because they could not get it.” 

“ If Margaret should leave them, they 
would, no doubt, find it very difficult to get 
any one who would do as she does. She takes 
care of everything, and besides, I am sure 
she must now be doing the Avork of two ser- 
vants. If she should go, they would be in 
trouble,” said Agnes, thoughtfully. 

“ In that case would it not be a great satis- 
faction to you to possess the knowledge and 


^ r>AXJGiixER,’s 143 


skill necessary to be of real use in your 
father’s family.” 

“ Indeed it would, if I could but get these 
qualifications.” 

“ You have here an excellent opportunity 
to acquire them.” 

“ I suppose I have. I must at once resume 
taking lessons of Aunt Lucy. I have ne- 
glected it too long.” 

Agnes was sincere in this resolution, yet 
several weeks passed, and very little progress 
was made. Having never been trained to the 
work, she found it distasteful, and the awk- 
wardness of her first attempt was also a source 
of discouragement. 

“ I shall never make a good housekeeper,” 
she said to Aunt Martha one day. 

“Only patience and perseverance are re- 
quired,” was the reply. 

“And these I do not possess.” 

“ If you would do this as the work which 
Jesus has given you to do, I think it would 
help you very much. I have repeatedly 


144 


'WILBTTR ; OR, . 


heard you express a wish to do something for 
Him who has done so much for you.” 

' “ Oh, yes, I have hoped to do a great deal 
of work for him ; but I was not thinking of 
such work.” 

“ It is not for us to choose our work. The 
good servant does without questioning what- 
ever his master bids him.” 

“ But this does not seem to me like work 
for Jesus. I could never make it seem so.” 

“ We are commanded to eat and drink to 
the glory of God. Surely if we can glorify 
him in such commonplace acts as these, every 
employment may be sanctified in the same 
manner. If God should speak to you in a 
■vision or dream, as he did to the prophets of 
old, and give you some special work to do, 
would you not feel bound to employ your 
utmost diligence and skill to perform the work 
in the best manner possible ?” 

' “ I certainly should.” 

“God does not in our day make known 
what he would have us do by vision and 


A DATJCmTER’S IN'ET.TJEN'CE. 145 

dreams, but by bis W ord and Providence. He 
is now affording you an excellent opportunity 
to prepare yourself for duties which it is 
highly probable that you will yet have to 
perform. Does he not in this way point out 
to you the work he has for you to do ?” 

“ I think he does,” said Agnes thoughtfully. 
“ I must talk with Aunt Lucy about it, and 
we must try to form some efficient plan to 
accomplish the object.” 

13 


XV. 


A QTTESTION OF DVTT. 


ONES did not again falter in her purpo?^. 



jla. Aunt Martha had indeed set the subject 
before her in a new light. She had touched 
the right chord. Agnes had given her heart 
to Jesus, and sincerely desired to know and 
do his will. Once convinced that this was 
the work He had given her to do, she felt 
that it must be well and faithfully performed. 

At first it cost her no little effort and self- 
denial ; but the way grew easier as she pro- 
ceeded, as the way of duty usually does. 
Practice brought skill, and when this was once 
obtained, Agnes found that there was real 
pleasure in its exercise. 

“ How persevering you are,” said her aunt 
\to her one day. 


1.46 


A. I5-A.XJ OUTER’S INEEUEISTCE. 147 

“ I intend to persevere until you can give 
me a diploma,” said Agnes laughing. 

“ Certifying that you are an accomplished 
liousekeeper !” 

It must certify that I have the ability to 
secure the comfort and good order of any 
household that may be placed under my care. 
I suppose all this comes almost as a matter of 
course to those who have the advantage of 
an early training, but I must make a special 
effort to acquire it.” 

“ You are making this effort nobly, and I 
do not think you will ever regret it.” 

In the spring Mrs. Carryl was still reluc- 
tant to part with her niece, and Agnes foUnd 
that she herself was not quite ready to4adfi* 
leave of Woodville. ' 

“ You must remain with us until after 
Walter’s vacation,” said her aunt, one day 
after receiving a letter from her son, stating 
that he expected to spend part of his summer 
vacation at home, and that he hoped to bring 
with him his friend, Alfred Reed. 


148 


AGNES WIEBUE; OR, 


“ I should like it so much,” said Agnes ; 
but a question of duty arose in her mind. 

Such questions were usually carried to Aunt 
Martha’s room, she was such a wise, gentle 
and patient counsellor. 

“ Do you think I ought to remain so much 
longer away from home ?” Agnes asked. 

“ I want you to stay so much I fear that 
I shall not be a very candid and disinterested 
adviser,” said Aunt Martha. “What will 
your friends at home say to it ?” 

“ I do not think they will make any serious 
objection. I have been absent from them so 
long that for some reasons I wish to return. 
I should wish it more than I do were it not 
for my fears.” 

“What fears?” 

“ I have privileges here which I shall not 
there enjoy, and I shall there meet with temp- 
tations which I do not here have to encounter. 
I am very weak and don’t know how I shall 
bear the change.” 

“ If your religion will not bear transplant- 


A. DAXJ&HTER’S INFLUEIiTCE. 149 

ing it is worth very little. But I feel it is 
not so. You are making the same mistake 
you made when you came here. You then 
learned that neither place nor friends could 
make you a Christian. Nothing but the in- 
finite grace of God could change your heart. 
None but an infinite Redeemer could save you. 
You have a similar lesson now to learn. 
Nothing but the mighty power of God can 
keep you from falling anywhere, and that 
power can keep you everywhere.” 

“ You remember the passage in Bunyan’s 
Pilgrim which you read to me last week, 
where the interpreter showed Christian the 
fire burning against a wall, and one standing 
by it casting on water to put it out, but the 
more he cast on, the more brightly the fire 
burned. Then the pilgrim was showed one 
behind the wall continually pouring oil upon 
the fire, and was told that the water repre- 
sented the temptations of the world and the 
devil, while by the oil was represented the 
secret influences of divine grace by which God 


150 AGNES WILBUR; OR, 

carries on his work in human hearts. All 
your reliance must be upon this divine influ- 
ence, It can cause the fire to glow when 
surrounding circumstances all seem like so 
much water cast upon it to put it out. 

“ When the time comes for you to return 
home, if you will go trusting in the grace of 
God,‘ you will find it all sufficient to sustain 
you and keep you from falling. But I hope 
the time has not yet come. When we are at 
a loss to know what duty is, if we will watch 
and wait and pray, and ask God to guide us, 
he will guide us, and circumstances will arise 
to make the path of duty clear.” 

A week later Agnes began to think that 
such circumstances had arisen, when she re- 
ceived a letter from Caroline informing her 
that Margaret had left them to take care of a 
sick sister. “We don’t expect she will re- 
turn,” wrote Carrie. “We think she was 
tired of the country and her work here, and 
glad of an excuse to get away. We have a 
girl in her stead, but she is very different 


A. D^XJGmTER’S INFLUENCE. 151 


from Margaret, and things do not go on as 
they did.” 

“ Don’t you think I ought to return home 
at once ?” said Agnes to Aunt Martha, after 
making known to her the contents of this 
letter. Aunt Lucy don’t think so, but she 
is so anxious I should remain until after 
AValter’s vacation, that I fear I cannot trust 
her judgment.” 

“ And you think me sufficiently indifferent 
to be impartial, do you ?” said Aunt Martha, 
smiling. 

“Oh, no, it is not that, but somehow it 
seems as if you were so near heaven that you 
see everything clearer than the rest of us do.” 

“ It should be so,” said Aunt Martha, “ but 
I fear that I am still selfish sometimes. Per- 
haps I am so now in agreeing with your aunt; 
but it seems to me that you had better wait a 
little, and see how they get along without you. 
In the interval you can improve the time by 
learning as much as possible of your aunt. 
If you could acquire her habit of thrift and 


152 


WiriBXTR; OR, 


economy, it might be of great service to you, 
JMuch may be saved and the most made of 
everything without diminishing family com- 
forts. Domestic economy is always useful 
and often indispensable.” 

“ I will try to acquire the art,” said Agnes. 
“ I have no doubt that it will be necessary for 
us to practice economy.” 

The next letter Agnes received from home 
was from her father. It gave her permission 
to remain at Woodville until after Walter’s 
vacation, but contained hardly an allusion to 
domestic affairs. 

Early in the summer Agnes received a let- 
ter from Walter. It expressed a strong desire 
that she should not leave until after his vaca- 
tion. “ I want you to see my friend of whom 
you have heard me speak so often,” he wrote. 
“I am sure you will like him. Besides I 
shall miss you very much if you are not there ; 
for I have learned to regard you more as my 
eldest sister than as my cousin.” 

After receiving this letter Agnes was more 


A. DAXJGmXER’S II<rEEXJENCE. 153 

than ever desirous to remain, and most sin- 
cerely did she hope that no tidings would be 
received from home which wmuld make it her 
duty to return before the time appointed. 

She was, however, disappointed in this hope. 
Just one month before the commencement of 
Walter’s vacation she received a letter from 
her sister. “ You can’t think what a time we 
have had of it since Margaret left,” wrote 
Carrie. “We have changed servants — help, 
as they call them here — three times, and each 
time for the worse. You don’t know how ig- 
norant servants are here. It seems to be the 
custom for the mistress to take charge of 
everything and do half the work beside. I 
think the servants must have an easier time 
than the mistresses, indeed I have no doubt it 
is so in many cases. 

“Mary, the girl we have now, is quite 
young. She is strong, and seems willing to 
do when she is told how, but who is to tell 
her how? INIother is not able to leave her 
room, and I know a great deal more about 


154 


WILBUR.; OR, 


music and drawing than about making bread 
and broiling steaks. By the way, you ought 
to have seen the last bread we had made. 
AVe could not eat it, and since then have used 
crackers. The coffee was so bad that father 
would not drink it, and now we use tea. 

“ I told father I meant to send for you to 
see if you could not teach this ignoramus some- 
thing ; but he said I must not, for you had 
the promise of remaining until after Walter’s 
vacation, and, besides, it wa.s not likely that 
you knew more about these things than your 
elder sister. I used to think that I should not 
like to stay in AVoodville, but I now begin to 
think you have the best of it. I dare say 
you enjoy eating Aunt Lucy’s good things, 
but I don’t suppose you know anything more 
about making them than I do.” 

It cost Agnes a struggle to give up remain- 
ing at Woodville until after the vacation, 
which was now so near at hand, and had been 
anticipated with so much pleasure, but the 
struggle was a brief one. 


A D^XJG-HTER’S HSrELUENCE. 155 


“ I shall go home day after to-morrow/’ she 
said to her aunt. ‘‘I am needed so much 
that I must not stay away any longer.” 

Though her aunt was very desirous that she 
should remain, she could not tell her that she 
did not think it was now her duty to go. 

“ I do wish Margaret could have stayed a 
few months longer,” Agnes said one day to 
Aunt Martha. 

“We have always one consolation, my 
dear. When we can’t have what we wish, 
we may know that we have something better.” 

“ It does not always seem so.” 

“ No, indeed. We must take it upon trust, 
because we know it is so. He who is infinite 
in wisdom and love must choose the best. I 
have no doubt that you will be very useful at 
home. A'ou can give Mary much needed in- 
struction and direction, and with her assist- 
ance you can soon make things w^ear a differ- 
ent aspect. It must now be a great satisfac- 
tion to you to think that you have fitted 
yourself to be useful in this emergency.” 


156 


WILBXJR. 


“ It is indeed, but it is a satisfaction not 
unmingled with sadness.” 

« How so?” 

“ I know that my time and strength will 
be mainly spent in this daily routine of cares 
and labors, all of which are for the body. I 
had so hoped for a higher kind of usefulness.” 

“ How do you know that the higher kind 
of usefulness will not be embraced in these 
daily cares and duties? We cannot draw a 
dividing line between those acts which benefit 
only the body and those which affect the higher 
interests of the immortal soul, for the two are 
mingled and intertwined in our daily life. 
In the faithful, diligent discharge of these 
humble duties you may be doing much good, 
in the highest sense of that term, to those who 
are nearest and dearest to you.” 

“If I could only hope it would be so,” 
said Agnes, earnestly. 

“ Do the work your Saviour has given you 
to do, faithfully and prayerfully, and he will 
take care of all the rest.” 


XVI. 


THE NEW HOME. 


HE next clay Agnes was busy with prepa- 



X rations for returning home. Amid them 
all she did not forget her invalid friend, Mary 
Fisher, whose humble home she had visited 
many times during the year; and now she 
bent her steps thither for a last, farewell call. 

Agnes looked very sober when she entered 
Aunt Martha’s room on her return. Her 
quick eye observed it, and she asked the cause. 

“I have been to say good-bye to Mary 
Fisher,” said Agnes. 

“ Is it that which makes you look so sad ?” 

“Not altogether that; Miss Susan Prime 
came in before I left. As I have met her 
there several times, we are partially acquainted. 
Learning that I was going home, she asked 
14 157 


158 


AQIS'ES ■WILBUR.; OR, 


me a great many questions about my fatlier’s 
family. When, in answer to her inquiries, I 
told her that none of them were professors of 
religion, she said that she hoped I would go 
home determined to do my whole duty, that 
I must not keep silence, but must warn them 
all of their lost condition, and exhort them to 
flee from the wrath to come, or else their blood 
would be upon my skirts. I am sure I can 
never talk to my parents in that Avay. Can it 
be that my Saviour requires of me to do vio- 
lence to those feelings of filial deference and 
respect which he has bidden me cherish ?” 

'“No,” said Aunt Martha, “he does not 
require it.” 

“ I am glad you think so. I have been 
very much troubled by what Miss Susan said 
about my duty.” 

“Jesus calls his disciples the salt of the 
earth. Salt is sprinkled on our food or dif- 
fused equally through it. It is not eaten in 
lumps. This figure is employed in the precept, 
‘ Let your speech be always with grace, seasoned 


A DAXJGmTER’S ITiTEI^UElNrCE. 159 


with salt/ An exhortation which, for any 
reason, is unseasonable or inappropriate, may 
well be compared to a lump of salt in the 
wrong place. 

“ Our Saviour does require of us to be liv- 
ing epistles, known and read of all with whom 
we have intercourse. He does require us to 
glorify him by manifesting, in our daily walk 
and conversation, whatsoever things are pure, 
lovely and of good report. Your parents will 
be influenced more by what you do than by 
what you say. The cheerful, patient and 
faithful discharge of every duty will be a 
daily epistle which they cannot fail to read. 

“ But while all this is true, we must not 
forget that ‘A word fitly spoken is like apples 
of gold in pictures of silver.’ Such a word, 
falling from the lips of a child who has tasted 
of the love of Christ, has, in many instances, 
been the means of the conversion of a parent. 
Pray God that you may have grace to improve 
it to his glory, should he give you the oppor- 
tunity to speak such a word.” 


160 


-A.GNES WILEUR; OR, 


This was the last visit Agnes made to Aunt 
Martha’s room, and it was not soon forgotten. 

Twenty-four hours later she found herself 
in the midst of the home circle. She was not 
expected, but was none the less welcome for 
that. It was not the old, familiar home, but 
one far less luxurious. Agnes had often 
thought of this coming home, and not with- 
out apprehension. She had asked herself how 
this new, strange place she had never seen 
could seem like home. But when she received 
her father’s warm embrace, her mother’s kiss, 
her sister’s surprised but glad welcome, and 
her brother’s rougher greeting, she felt that 
the place where these best beloved were gath- 
ered must be home to her, though all else 
within and without was changed. 

“ I did not expect to see you so soon,” her 
father said to her an hour or two after her 
ari’ival. “ I thought you were very desirous 
to stay with your aunt until after Walter’s 
vacation.” 

“I should have enjoyed his society very 


A. DA-TJO-HTEIi’S INFETJEN'CE. 161 

much ; but I have been absent from you all 
a long time, and when I heard how much you 
missed Margaret, I wished to return immedi- 
ately, hoping that I might be of some use.” 

“Of what use can you be?” asked her 
father, smiling. “ I suppose you know about 
as much as Carrie?” 

“ I have learned a little of Aunt Lucy, and 
I thought even a little might be worth some- 
thing,” said Agnes, modestly ; for she felt that 
she was about to occupy a new and untried 
position, and she did not wish to awaken ex- 
pectations which she might not be able to 
meet. 

Soon after, INIr. \yilbur left the house and 
Frank came in. 

“You will wish yourself back again before 
the week’s out,” he said, addressing Agnes. 
“ I have been half-starved ever since Margaret 
W'ent away. I have teased father to let me go 
to Aunt Lucy’s, and I have had half a mind 
to run away. Y'ou don’t know what you will 
have for breakfast to-morrow morning.” 

14 * 


162 


AVILBUR; OR, 


. “ If I don’t know suppose you tell me.” 

“ You will have crackers instead of bread, 
tea instead of coffee, and meat burned on one 
side and half done on the other.” 

Agnes laughed. Perhaps you don’t know 
what you will have for breakfast,” she said. 

“Don’t I? You will find I know more 
than you about the meals here.” 

“ I shall help get the breakfast to-morrow.” 

“ What difference will that make ?” 

“ I will promise you one that you will not 
complain of, on two conditions.” 

“ What are they ?” 

“ You must take a walk before you come to 
the table that you may have a good appetite.” 

“No fears but the appetite will be good 
enough. What is the other condition ?” 

“You are not to show your face either in 
the dining-room or kitchen, until the bell 
rings.” 

“ Agreed,” said Frank. “I do hope you 
have learned something of Aunt Lucy. I 
should like a good breakfast, first rate.” 


>V DATJCS-HTEE-’S IT^Ii'LTJElSrCE. 163 

As Agnes was very desirous that her first 
effort should be successful, she determined to 
explore the ground that night. Half an hour 
later when Carrie was occupied with her music 
and Frank with a book, she slipped into the 
kitchen to find Mary. 

“ What is there for breakfast?” she asked. 

“Not much, I guess,” said Mary. 

“ There is coffee, I suppose ?” 

“Yes, but your father likes tea better.” 

“ He used to like coffee when it was well 
made,” said Agnes quietly. “ Is there meat?” 

“ Oh, yes’m. Your father brought in some 
nice steak to-day.” 

“And eggs ?” 

“ Yes ; a large bowl full, in the pantry.” 

“And there is milk, I suppose ?” 

“ I strained two large pans full to-night.” 

“ Very well ; we shall make it do I think. 
Is the table set for breakfast?” 

“ No’m.” 

“ You had better do it now, and there will 
be less to attend to in the morning.” 


164 


WILBUR; OR, 


“ That’s the way Mrs. Blake used to have 
me do. Mrs. Blake is the woman I lived with 
summer before last ; but Miss Caroline never 
told me to do so.” 

In a few minutes Agnes followed Mary to 
the dining-room, and soon perceived that she 
was not doing her work in the best manner. 

“ If you will bring out the dishes I will 
arrange them to-night,” she said. “ You can 
see how I do it, and then you can do the same 
another time, can you not ?” 

“ To be sure I can. I can do anything if 
anybody will only tell me just how they want 
it done.” 

Agnes next went to her mother’s room to 
see if she could be of any use there. Mrs. 
Wilbur’s health, always delicate, had suffered 
severely from the changes and trials of the 
last year. She was now confined to her room, 
and some days to her bed. Agnes, during her 
stay in Woodville, had gradually fallen into 
the habit of performing many kind offices for 
Aunt Martha, and sometimes for Mary Fisher. 


A D^TJGHITEIt’S INFLUENCE. 165 

In this way she had acquired that most inval- 
uable accomplishment, the art of ministering 
in the sick room. Her practiced eye soon 
saw what was wanting, and she at once set 
about making her mother as comfortable as 
possible for the night. 

“ How handy you are said her mother. 
“ Carrie is an awkward nurse, and I would often 
rather go without a thing than have the 
trouble of giving so many directions.” 

A tear stood in Mrs. Wilbur’s eye as Agnes 
bent over her for the last good-night kiss, and 
she said, “ I wonder how I have done without 
you so long.” 

Agnes did not lay her head upon her pil- 
low that night without many misgivings. 
She had learned a great deal of her Aunt 
Lucy, but she was a stranger to care and re- 
sponsibility. Now she would have much of 
both. She would have to be nurse and house- 
keeper, with no one to whom she could look 
for aid or counsel. But she was much com- 
forted by the thought so often dwelt upon by 


166 


A-GISTES 'VVIEBUR. 


Aunt ISIartha, that this was the work her 
Saviour had given her to do. Might she 
not then confidently look to him for grace and 
strength to do it? There was hope, comfort 
and strength in the thought. 




XVII. 

FUtST ATTEMPTS. 

F rank was tme to his agreement the next 
morning. When the breakfast bell rang 
he rushed into the room. Agnes was there, 
putting the last finishing touch to the table. 

Frank took in all at once, the fragrant 
aroma of the well-made coffee, the large plate 
heaped with light cream biscuit, the steak 
done to a turn, the white, mealy potatoes, and 
the tempting omelet. 

“ Isn’t this jolly !” he exclaimed. “ Three 
clieers for my brave sister.” 

‘‘ Hush,” said his father, who stepped in 
just after him, “you are too noisy, even for a 
country boy.” 

“Isn’t that a breakfast worthy of three 
cheers?” demanded Frank. 


167 


168 


WILBUR; OR, 


Though Mr. 'Wilbur had checked Frank’s 
noisy demonstrations, yet his own face wore a 
look of quiet satisfaction as he glanced at the 
inviting scene before him. 

“We have not seen such a breakfast since 
Margaret left us,” he said, after they were all 
seated. “I wish your mother was able to 
come down and enjoy it with us.” 

“ I wish so too,” said Agnes, “ but I have 
sent Mary up to her with a cup of coffee, a 
piece of steak and some cracker toast.” 

“ That is right. It seems your aunt has 
sent you home an accomplished housekeeper. 
I had no idea you liad improved your time so 
well.” 

All partook of the breakfast in a way Avhich 
was very complimentary to Agnes, to say the 
least. It was a triumph for her, and she 
thoroughly enjoyed it. But one fine day does 
not make a summer, and though this first 
movement was crowned with victory, Agnes 
found that it was the commencement of a long 
campaign. 


A. DATJO-HTEIt’S IT^^ELTJETvTCE. 169 

“ Do you think you will make anything of 
Mary?” Mr. Wilbur asked that night. 

“ I think she will soon learn to do her part 
well,” Agnes replied. 

“ Her part ?” 

“Yes, father; you know we can’t expect 
one servant to do all the work.” 

“ I suppose not,” said her father, gravely. 
“I think that is one reason that Margaret 
became discontented and left us. We need 
another servant, I know, but we cannot afford 
it now.” 

“ Never mind, I think we shall get along 
very well with one. I can do a good deal.” 

“We have already seen what you can do,” 
said Mr. Wilbur, smiling rather sadly, “but 
I am not willing to see you work so. I would 
not allow it, if I could help it, but I can no 
longer do as I would wish. I never thought 
my daughters would come to this.” 

“You don’t think we have come to any- 
thing very bad, do you ?” said Agnes, gaily. 

“ You were brought up to be ladies,” re- 

15 


170 


A&T^ES WILEXII?,; OR., 


plied her father, who could not divest himself 
of some of the false notions which w'ere too 
common in the circle in which he had lately 
moved. 

“Don’t you call us ladies now? Don’t 
you call Aunt Lucy a lady ?” 

“ Yes, I do think she is a lady, but I doubt 
if some of our late city friends would acknow- 
ledge her claim to that title.” 

“ We have nothing to do with them now, 
so we can judge for ourselves what is proper, 
becoming and ladylike, and we have just as 
good a right to our opinion as they liave to 
theirs. Aunt Lucy has often reminded me of 
the description in the thirty-first chapter of 
Proverbs. Surely the model which is given 
us in the best of books must be a good one 
to imitate.’^ 

“ I see that your aunt has imparted to you 
some of her own peculiar notions, but it must 
be acknowledged that they are good and 
convenient for those in our circumstances,” 
said ]\Ir. Wilbur, with one of his sad smiles. 


A DAUGHTER’S IHEEUEKTCE. 171 

Agnes had spoken cheerfully to her father, 
and sometimes she felt so, but not always. 
The burden of care and responsibility was new 
to her, and she felt its weight. Mary was 
good-tempered and willing to work, but she 
needed much instruction and direction ; every- 
thing seemed out of place and out of order, 
and Agnes herself required practice and ex- 
perience before she could feel at home in her 
new position, and find satisfaction and even 
pleasure in its cares and duties. 

When Saturday night came she retired to 
her own room wearied in body and dispirited 
in mind. To one trained as Agnes had been 
in habits of ease and self-indulgence, these 
domestic cares and labors were not light ; but 
they were not the heaviest burden which then 
rested upon her mind and heart. That which 
she felt most keenly was the loss of the soci- 
ety of her Christian friends and the religious 
privileges she had enjoyed at Woodville. 

How she missed the morning and evening 
worship. How it would strengthen her weak 


172 


A.GNES WILBUR; OR, 


fiiitli could she hear the well remembered 
tones of her uncle’s voice, committing them 
all to the love and care of Him who is the 
refuge and strength of those who put their 
trust in him. How would it calm her 
troubled thoughts could she seat herself by 
her Aunt Lucy’s side until she began to feel 
the influence of her ever quiet and cheerful 
temper. How would it cheer her fainting 
heart could she enter Aunt JNIartha’s room, 
and listen to the gentle words of counsel and 
encouragement which she understood so well 
how to speak.' If she had but one Christian 
friend with whom she could take sweet coun- 
sel, what a blessing such a friend would be; 
but, alas, she had not one ! 

Agnes knew indeed that there was One who 
could be to her all in all, and more than fill 
the place of those kind friends and counsel- 
lors, but since she had been separated from 
them, she had, as it seemed to her, been drift- 
ing away from Him also. She did not feel 
the joy of his presence as she had done in 


A. JD^XJGmTER’S IKTFLXJElSrCE. 173 

Woodville. Now that she needed to find 
him not only dearer but nearer than ever, he 
seemed afar oif. Thoughts of her new cares 
and responsibilities would divert her attention 
when she read His word, and the same intru- 
sive thoughts would disturb and confuse her 
mind even in the hour of prayer. Yet these 
very cares and duties had been assumed be- 
cause she believed that this was the work he had 
given her to do. Would he forsake her while 
striving to serve and please him ? and yet, if 
he had not forsaken her, why did she feel less 
of his presence and supporting grace than she 
had formerly done? 

Tlien she remembered how Aunt Martha 
had said that we must not depend upon our 
frames and feelings, for these were affected by 
a great variety of circumstances; that our 
safety does not depend upon our hold of 
Christ, but upon his hold of us; and tliat he 
will keep us while striving to v'alk in tlie path 
of duty, though we may not be able to feel 
the hand that upholds us. 

15 * 


174 


A-OTsTES 'VVILBEE; OR, 


She thought too of the fire burning against 
the wall. Were not these worldly influenees 
like the water poured upon that fire? and 
would not Jesus carry on his work in her 
heart by the silent, less perceptible, but more 
powerful influences of his grace, as the one 
behind the wall had poured oil upon the fire? 
She was deprived of the privilege of daily 
intercourse with Christian friends, but could 
she not trust her best Friend, to feed the flame 
of love and devotion in his own way. These 
thoughts brought strength and comfort, yet 
the cloud was but partially dispersed that 
night. 

The next day would be the Sabbath. Agnes 
hoped to find rest and refreshment in the re- 
turn of these sacred hours, but even this an- 
ticipation was clouded by the thought that 
she was a stranger in a strange place, and 
hardly knew what to hope or expect. 

The day after her return she said to Carrie, 
“ You have not yet told me about your min- 
ister. I do not even know his name.” 


^ DA-XIGHTEIt’S USTELUENCE. 175 

“ Plis name is Owen,” said Carrie. 

How do you like him ?” 

^^Oh, he is good enough, I suppose, for 
this place. I don’t think he is a man of extra- 
ordinary talents. We could not reasonably 
expect to find a great preacher here.” 

“ Is he a good preacher ?” 

“ I don’t know, I am sure ; you can judge 
for yourself when you hear him,” said Carrie 
in a very indifferent manner. 


XVIII, 


JHAJSTNA. 


HE next day Agnes accompanied her 



JL fatlier, Carrie and Frank to the morning 
service. Stmnge faces met and passed her 
on th-" way, and when she was seated in 
' .acn, strangers surrounded her on all 
sides. There was not one familiar face out- 
side of her father^s seat. But this was not 
all. Agnes felt a painful consciousness that 
even the loved ones who sat by her side could 
not sympathize in those higher and nobler 
aspirations which were to her now, as the very 
life of her soul. This, together with the 
surroundings, produced a feeling of loneliness 
and isolation. 

Even the voice which uttered the first 
prayer sounded strangely to her. But the 


176 


A. r)AXJG}-3rITER,’S INEETJElNrCE. 177 

prayer itself was fervent and appropriate, and 
Agnes felt that it was so. 

Upon its conclusion the following hytan was 
read : 

“ He who on earth as man was known, 

And bore our sins and pains, 

IS^ow, seated on th' eternal throne. 

The God of glory reigns. 

“His hands the wheels of nature guide 
With an unerring skill. 

And countless worlds extended wide 
Obey his sovereign will. 

“While harps unnumbered sound his praise 
In yonder world above. 

His saints on earth admire his ways. 

And glory in his love. 

“ When troubles, like a burning sun. 

Beat heavy on their head. 

To this almighty Rock they run. 

And find a pleasing shade. 

“How glorious he! how happy they. 

In such a glorious Friend ! 

Whose love secures them all the way. 

And crowns them at the end.” 


178 


A-GISTES WILBUR; OR, 


The liymn was very familiar to Agnes. 
It was one of Aunt INIartha’s favorites, and 
for her gratification she had sung it several 
times with Walter and Lucy. It was well 
sung that morning. How sweet and home- 
like it sounded. It recalled to Agnes the 
feelings with which she had sung it in Aunt 
Martha’s sick room. She could not doubt 
that there were those around her whose hearts 
were at that moment throbbing with similar 
feelings. The sense of loneliness and isolation 
faded away, and she felt more truly at home 
than she had done since coming to her new 
place of residence. Was it not her Father’s 
house, one of his earthly tabernacles, where 
his children gathered? and were not those 
who in spirit worshipped with her there, her 
brothers and sisters, whom she should one day 
know and love as such ? 

After another prayer and another hymn 
the text was announced. “ Casting all your 
care upon him, for he careth for you.” Agnes 
was struck with its appropriateness to her 


-A. r>A.TJGmXEI?,’fe ITsTITLXJEI^rCE. 179 

present condition and circumstances, and she 
listened with the most eager attention to the 
sermon that followed. It gave utterance to 
many of the thoughts, feelings and perplexi- 
ties which had filled her mind during the past 
few days. It brought but fully and clearly 
the consoling thoughts of the previous eve- 
ning, together with many others. It seemed 
to Agnes almost as if it must have been writ- 
ten and delivered for her special benefit, so 
entirely did it meet her present wants. She 
felt that this was indeed heavenly manna, 
that she had been fed in the house of God, 
and strengthened for the duties of the week 
before her. 

“ We never attend church in the afternoon,” 
said Carrie as they were returning home, in 
reply to a remark of Agnes relating to the 
afternoon service. 

“You will attend this afternoon for my 
sake won’t you ?” said Agnes. “ I want to 
go very much, and it will not be pleasant to 
go alone on this first day.” 


180 


AUGUSTES WlEBXJIi; OR, 


“ I will go this once, but you must not ask 
me again. It is enough of a bore to listen to 
one long sermon.” 

“ Oh, Carrie, dear, do not call such a sermon 
a bore ; besides, I am sure it was not long.” 

“ Perhaps it was not. But it seemed long 
to me. Sermons usually do seem long. If 
you do not think them long, you must be dif- 
ferent from what you used to be.” 

“You know I wrote you that I hoped I 
was very different,” said Agnes, with a little 
fluttering at her heart, for she had never be- 
fore spoken personally to her sister of the 
great change which had taken place. 

“ Then you like Mr. Owen ?” said Carrie. 

“ Yes, very much.” 

“You surely don’t think him equal to our 
former pastor ?” 

“ I hardly know. I do not think I am a 
competent judge.” 

“ Why not ? You have heard them both.” 

“ But not with the same ears, or perhaps I 
ought rather to say with the same heart. All 


A. DATJOHTER’S IN-ELXJENCE. 181 

these things seem so different to me now. I 
enjoyed the sermon this morning so much.” 

“ Enjoyed it !” repeated Carrie, in a tone 
of surprise. 

“Oh, yes indeed,” said Agnes, and her voice, 
manner and beaming countenance told how 
much she had enjoyed it, better than words 
could express. 

Carrie could understand and feel that lan- 
guage. She supposed that Agnes was now 
what she termed religious. She had always 
thought that religion must make people dull 
and stupid, but she now felt that she was the 
one who had been dull and stupid that morn- 
ing, while Agnes had, in some way, secured 
all the enjoyment. 

“ There was a stranger in Mr. Wilbur’s seat 
to-day,” said Mr. Owen, to his wife. 

“ It was Mr. Wilbur’s youngest daughter, 
Agnes. Mrs. Cooke told me last week that 
she was now at home.” 

“I can’t think that young lady was Mr. 
Wilbur’s daughter,” said Mr. Owen. 

16 


182 


AGNES WILBUR; OR, 


«Why not?” 

“You remember Mrs. Ellis told us that she 
•was acquainted with the Misses Wilbur in 
New York, and that they were both gay, 
fashionable and thoughtless, but I am sure 
that young lady is neither gay nor thought- 
less.” 

“ How do you know ? You have only seen 
her at church.” 

“ We ministers sometimes see a good deal 
there. No thoughtless person ever listened 
.to preaching as that young lady listened to- 
day. I believe her earnest attention helped 
me to preach better. If our hearers knew 
how much they might help us in this way, I 
think they would oftener give us this kind of 
■aid. I think this young lady is somotliing 
more than thoughtful. If I am not mistaken, 
she listened to the truth to-day as those only 
listen who receive it into their hearts. Are 
you sure she is Mr. Wilbur’s daughter?” 

“Yes, quite sure. I saw her plainly when 
she came out of church to-day, and she looks 


d^xjghiter’s iNFLXJEisrcE. 183 

enough like Carrie Wilbur to be her sister. 
She may be difierent now from what she was 
when Mrs. Ellis knew her.” 

“ I hope so indeed. A pious daughter is 
often a great blessing in such a family. You 
know how much I have wished to obtain 
greater influence in that family, that I might 
use it for their good. If we can have the aid 
of one of its members, we can labor more 
hopefully. We must call there soon, and get 
acquainted with this young lady.” 

The next day Frank brought from the post- 
office two letters for Agnes, one from her aunt, 
and the other from Walter, and very welcome 
letters they were. Aunt Lucy’s contained a 
message from the sick room so like Aunt 
INIartha that it brought tears to the eyes of 
Agnes. It also contained kind words from 
her uncle, from Harry, Lucy and Susie. 

A portion of Walter’s letter ran as follows. 
“ On Thursday I received mother’s letter 
informing me of your sudden flight from 
Woodville. I must own that I felt a good 


184 


-A-GNES WILBUR; OR, 


deal disappointed to liear of it when I consid- 
ered my vacation just at hand, and was anti- 
cipating so much pleasure in your society. 
Still I cannot wish that your decision had 
been different. I would not prefer my own 
pleasure before the best interests of my friends. 
Our Father orders all things well. I cannot 
ask for my dearest friends anything better 
than that they should go where he bids them, 
and do the work he gives them. I believe 
you are where God would have you be and 
doing what he would have you do. 

“ I have no doubt that you miss some priv- 
ileges enjoyed at Woodville, and I think I 
know what the things are that you miss most. 
I trust you will enjoy some precious religious 
privileges in your present home. My friend, 
Alfred Reed, tells me that he is well ac- 
quainted with Mr. Owen, that he is indeed a 
personal friend. He regards him as an earnest, 
evangelical preacher, and a devoted, laborious 
pastor. The Lord ‘ send thee help from the 
sanctuary, and strengthen thee out of Zion.^ 


A. DAXJCBmTER’S INEETJENCE. 185 

“Do not think that you cannot live religion 
where you are, as well as in Woodville. God 
will ever be your helper, and he can raise you 
up Christian friends and helpers as he sees 
that you need them. He never leads us into 
any part of the wilderness where there is no 
manna to be found. We must not suffer our- 
selves to ask, in doubt and unbelief, ‘ Can God 
furnish a table in the wilderness V ” 

“ Was not this,” thought Agnes, “just what 
I was tempted to do last Saturday night when 
I retired to my room so weary and disheart- 
ened? In my weakness and discouragement, 
I was ready to think that I had found a place, 
where there was no manna. But God has 
been better to me than my fears. What pre- 
cious manna he permitted me to gather in his 
house yesterday ; and to-day he has given me 
these letters to cheer and encourage me.” 

Again Agnes looked at the date of the letter. 
It was written Saturday evening. Had not 
the prayer it contained been answered ? Had 
she not found help in the sanctuary? Though 
16 * . 


186 


WILBUE,. 


separated from her Christian friends, it was 
sweet to know that they could think of her, 
counsel her, pray for her, and bring down 
blessings on her head. 

Agnes was strengthened and encouraged. 
She felt that afternoon that she had much to 
be thankful for. She had dear Christian 
friends, though she was distant from them, 
and she might hope each Sabbath to enjoy the 
privilege of listening to the message delivered 
by a faithful ambassador of Christ. More 
than this, she had the promise of her Saviour 
to be ever with her. For all else could she 
not hope and wait ? 


XIX. 


NEW FRIENDS. 



IHE next morning a boy came to the house 


A. asking for work. Mr. Wilbur replied 
that he had none to give him. 

“ I can work right smart ; can do almost as 
much as a man,” the boy persisted, evidently 
very unwilling to receive this negative as a 
final answer. 

“Perhaps so,” said Mr. Wilbur, “but I 
would rather hire a man. What is your name ?” 

“James Sharp, sir. I wish you would give 
me some work. I can do a great many things 
as well as a man can.” 

“ I can’t attend to it now. I am in haste, 
and must go to the store immediately.” 

“ I will call again, if some other time will 
suit you better.” 


187 


188 


WIUBXJIt; OH-, 


“No, I haven’t any work for you.” 

The boy turned away slowly, but with a 
look of disappointment which attracted the 
attention of Agnes. 

“ I wish you had some work for him,” she 
said to her father. 

“ Why, what do you care about it ?” 

“He looked so disappointed, I felt sorry 
for him.” 

“I did not observe it. There is work 
enough to be done, but Mr. Jackson is ready to 
do an odd job for me at any time, and I would 
rather hire him. I suppose I might have 
set the boy at work in the garden this morn- 
ing if I had thought more about it. I won- 
der if he is out of sight.” 

Agnes ran out and looked round the corner 
of the house. The bey’s pace had been very 
slow, and he was only a few steps beyond the 
gate. He turned quickly when Agnes called 
him. 

“If you will come back, I think father 
will give you a few hours’ work,” she said. 


A. DAUGHTER’S IHEDUENCE. 189 


The boy’s face brightened, and he came 
back with a quick, eager step. 

Mr. Wilbur took him to the garden, and 
after a few directions left him to his work. 

It is natural to feel an interest in those 
whom we befriend. Agnes therefore at once 
conceived a desire to know more about this 
boy. She found her thoughts turning to him 
many times that morning. At last she deter- 
mined to go into the garden and see him. He 
turned quickly, as she approached. 

“ I have come out to see you work,” said 
Agnes. 

“ I am trying to do everything just as your 
father wants it done,” he said. 

“ That is right. If you suit him perhaps 
he will employ you again.” 

“ I do hope he will,” said the boy eagerly. 

“Why are you so anxious to get work? 
Do you like to work so well ?” 

“ I like work well enough, but that is not 
just the reason. Father is sick, and the folks 
at home want all I can earn.” 


190 


AGNES WILBUR; OR, 


AVhai is the matter with your father ?” 

“ He had the lung fever last spring. We 
thought he would get well in a few weel^s, 
but his cough was bad, he didn’t get strong, 
and now the doctor says he is running down.” 

“ Has he an appetite ?” 

Not a very good one. He gets tired of 
the things mother cooks for him, because he 
has had them so many times. Sometimes the 
neighbors send him in something nice, and he 
says it tastes good. Mrs. Owen sent him in a 
pudding yesterday.” 

“ Have you brothers and sisters ?” 

“ I have a little sister and a baby brother, 
that is all. IMother has as much as she can 
do to care for father and the children, so there 
is no one to earn money but me.” 

“ I see you are trying to do all you can. 
Ho you earn much ?” 

“ I could if I got work all the time, but 
some days I can’t get anything to do. 

“ Where do you live ?” 

“ Ho you know where Mr. Clark lives ?” 


A. DAUG-HTER’S INEI^EENCE. 191 


“ No, I am a stranger. I have been here 
only a week.” 

“ Do you know where Mr. Owen lives ?” 

“Yes, my sister told me where he lives.” 

“We live on the road that turns ofip from 
this, just beyond Mr. Owen’s. It is the 
fourth house, but it is half a mile from the 
turn, for there are not many houses on that 
road.” 

“ Then you live nearly a mile from here.” 

“ Yes, ma’am, if you go round by the road, 
but if you go across the lots it is a great deal 
nearer.” 

After some farther conversation Agnes went 
back to the house. 

When Mr. Wilbur returned home at noon 
he was so well pleased with the boy’s work 
that he promised to give him another job in 
two or three days. 

Agnes thought a good deal of what James 
had told her about his family. She soon be- 
gan to think that she would like to visit the 
sick man and carry him something nice, such 


192 


AGHSTES WILBXJR; OR, 


as she used to carry to Mary Fisher, and it 
was not long before she determined to do so. 

“ Do you know where Mr. Sharp lives ?” 
she asked of Frank when he came from school 
at noon. 

“ Certainly,” was the reply. “ I have not 
been here so many months without finding out 
where every body lives.” 

“ Then I suppose you know the way to his 
house across the fields.” 

“ Of course I do.” 

“ Can you direct me so that I shall not get 
lost if I go that way ?” 

“Why, what do you want to go there 
for?” 

“ James Sharp told me his father was sick, 
and I wish to carry him something nice to 
tempt his appetite.” 

“ Oh, you are going to play my Lady Boun- 
tiful are you ?” 

“ Only in a very small way,” said Agnes, 
smiling. “ I think I should enjoy the walk, 
• and the change would do me good.” 


A. r>A.XJGmTER.’S IN-FLXJEN^CE. 193 


“ If you will wait until I come from school 
at night, I will go with you.” 

“ Thank you, I will wait.” 

In the evening Frank found Agnes ready 
for her walk. 

“Wait until I get my fishing-tackle,” he 
said, “ and then I shall be ready.” 

Frank accompanied Agnes until they came 
in sight of the house. 

“ There it is,” he said. “ You can’t lose 
your way now, so I will leave you and be off 
to the river.” 

As Agnes drew nearer the house she saw 
that James was at work in the garden. She 
was glad to see him, for as she was an entire 
stranger, she felt a little awkward, and not 
quite sure that her visit would be acceptable. 

As soon as James saw her he came toward 
her with a frank, pleasant smile. 

“ Do you think your parents would like to 
see me ?” she said. 

“ Oh, yes, ma’am, I am sure they will be 
very glad to see you.” 

17 


194 


^GHSTES WILBXJR,; OR, 


“ As I am a stranger, you must go in with 
me and introduce me.” 

James went with her to tlie liouse, and 
when tliey met Mrs. Sharp he said, “ This is 
IMiss AVilbur, mother ; she has come to see 
father, because I told her about his being sick 
when I worked at their house this morning.” 

This introduction removed all awkwardness. 
She was cordially welcomed, and her little of- 
fering gratefully accepted. In a few moments 
she was invited to go in and see the sick man. 
She had sat by his bedside but a few minutes 
when Mrs. Owen entered. Perceiving that 
they were strangers, Mrs. Sharp made the two 
ladies acquainted with each other. . Agnes 
soon rose to take her leave. Mrs. Owen said 
that she, too, must go. As they left the house 
in company Mrs. Owen asked, 

“Shall we walk together as far as my 
home ?” 

Agnes had intended, to return the way she 
came, but gladly changed her purpose to ac- 
cept of Mrs. Owen’s proposal. 


A. r>^XJG-HTER,’S INFLUENCE, 195 


“ I conclude you are accustomed to visit the 
sick, or you would not have found your way 
here so soon ?” said Mrs. Owen. 

“ I used to visit among the sick in Wood- 
ville,” Agnes replied modestly. 

“I am glad to find you so benevolently 
inclined.” 

“ I cannot claim any credit for it to-day,” 
replied Agnes, smiling. ‘‘ I came for my own 
benefit. I thought such a call would make it 
seem more home-like here, more like Wood- 
ville.” 

“Are you very much attached to Wood- 
ville?” 

“ I have some very dear Christian friends 
there.” 

The tone and manner said, “And I have 
none here,” though the lips did not utter the 
words. IMrs. Owen understood the unspoken 
language. 

“Are you feeling that you have none 
here?” she asked in a tone that invited con- 
fidence. 


196 


AGHvTES WIEBXJR,; OR, 


“ Yes,” said Agnes. 

“ You shall not have occasion to feel so any 
longer if you will but allow me to be your 
friend,” said Mrs. Owen with a warmth which 
at once reached the heart of Agnes. As she 
remained for a moment silent with emotion, 
Ml’S. Owen added, Will you allow it ?” 

“ Most gladly,” said Agnes. “ I am young 
and inexperienced, and very much need Chris- 
tian friends to take the place of those I have 
left.” 

They soon reached the parsonage. At the 
gate they met Mr. Owen, who had approached 
from the opposite direction. Mrs. Owen in- 
troduced Agnes. He seemed much pleased to 
meet her. 

“Where did you find Miss Wilbur?’’ he 
asked. 

“Where our Master’s servants are often 
found, by the bedside of the sick and suffer- 
ing.” 

“ Then I was not mistaken in my supposi- 
tion last Sabbath,” he said with a glad smile. 


D^XJ&HTEIt’S II^ELXJEN-CE. 19 / 

Agnes was puzzled by the words and the 
smile. 

“ What supposition ?” she asked. 

“ I then received the impression that you 
were a follower of Christ.” 

“ How could you know anything about it?” 

“I judged so from the manner in which 
you listened to the truth.” 

“ 1 could not help listening,” said Agnes 
blushing. “The morning sermon could not 
have been more appropriate if it had been 
written for me.” 

Mr. Owen smiled. 

“ We have already agreed to be friends,” 
said Mrs. Owen. 

“ Though your friendship is of very recent 
date, if it is truly Christian it will endure 
for ever.” 

This remark of the good man made a deep 
impression upon the mind of Agnes. She 
had had few Christian friends, and her 
thoughts had never dwelt much upon the du- 
rability of this tie. 

17 * 


198 


AGNES WILBUR. 


“ You must come in for a little while,” said 
Mrs. Owen. “If we are to be friends we 
must not be ceremonious.” 

Agues accepted the invitation, and spent a 
delightful half-hour in the pastor’s pleasant 
parlor. She left feeling that she had secured 
the love and sympathy of two Christian hearts 
whose friendship would be of great value to 
her, and she was very thankful to her heavenly 
Father for this new proof of his love and 
care. How many such proofs he had given 
since the last Saturday evening when she felt 
so sad and lonely, and her heart was ready to 
faint. 



Isn't that a breakfast worthy of three cheers?” 

p. 107. 




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XX. 


FIUST FltriTS. 



IHE next day, Mr. Wilbur having occasion 


X to go to a neighboring town on business, 
proposed to his daughters to accompany him. 

“ I should like to go,” said Agnes, “ but 
Mr. and Mrs. Owen have promised to call 
here to-day, and if you are absent I think 
Carrie and I must remain at home to receive 
them.” 

' “ I shall not stay at home for that,” said 

Carrie. “I am not so very desirous to see 
them.” 

“ If you go, there will be the more reason 
that I should remain,” said Agnes. “ Mother 
is not able to see visitors to-day, and there 
will be no one to receive them if I am not 


here.” 


Mr. Owen was obliged to go in another 


199 


200 


WILBUR.; OR, 


direction and was therefore unable to make 
the promised call. 

“I am Sony,” said Mrs. Owen, “but if 
you cannot accompany me, I think I had 
better go without you.” 

“Yes, go by all means,” said her husband, 
“ your new friend may think strange of it if 
you do not.” 

A little way from Mr. TVilbur’s gate Mrs. 
Owen met Mary. 

“Well, Mary,” she said, “how do you get 
on here?” 

“First-rate, since Miss Agnes came home.” 

“Does Miss Agnes take charge of you?” 
inquired Mrs. Owen, smiling. 

“Yes’m, and of everything else in the 
house. It has been new times since she has 
been about.” 

Mary would probably have enlarged upon 
the subject if Mrs. Owen had given her an 
opportunity, but she passed on without wait- 
ing to hear more. Agnes met her at the door 
with a heart-felt welcome. 


A. DA-TJO-HTER’S IlSTELEENCE. 201 

“ I was surprised to hear that you were at 
home,” Mrs. Owen remarked during the call. 
“ Your sister told me two or three weeks since 
that you would remain at Woodville until 
autumn.” 

“ That was the arrangement at one time,” 
said Agnes, “ but I thought I was needed at 
home, and so changed my plan. When I 
learned how much they missed Margaret I 
thought that I might be of some service, as 
Carrie has never been used to care.” 

Have you been used to it ?” 

“ Not to care. That is something quite new 
to me. I learned a good deal of my aunt, 
and I do the best I can, as there is no one 
here who knows more than I do. If I could 
go to my aunt for counsel sometimes I should 
be very glad.” 

“ If I can ever, in my humble way, supply 
her place, it will give me pleasure to do so.” 

“Thank you,” said Agnes; “it will be a 
great satisfaction to know that I have one to 
whom I can apply in case of need.” 


202 


WILBUR; OR, 


Mrs. Owen returned home more than ever 
interested in her young friend. She now un- 
derstood better than before why the Sabbath 
morning sermon had seemed to Agnes so ap- 
propriate to her own case. No doubt she had 
bent her steps toward the house of God that 
morning with a heart burdened with new cares 
and responsibilities, and with the thought 
that there was not in the place one Christian 
friend to whom she could look for sympathy 
and aid. 

From the moment Mrs. Owen had so frankly 
protfered her friendship, the heart of Agnes 
had gone out to her, and she felt assured that 
she would prove a true and valuable friend. 
She was not disappointed in this expectation. 
She ever found her new friend quick to sym- 
pathize and wise to counsel. 

The summer and autumn passed away, 
bringing both pleasures and trials to Agnes. 
The burden of her new cares and responsibil- 
ities grew lighter as time wore on, and she 
became accustomed to her new duties, acquir- 


^ D^TJO-HTER’S IN-REUEJ^CE. 203 

ing that confidence and self-reliance which 
practice alone can give. Mary proved indus- 
trious and good-tempered, willing to do as 
well as she knew how, and under the instruc- 
tions of Agnes, she soon became an efficient 
helper. 

Agnes had not forgotten the hint given her 
by Aunt Martha, on the subject of economy, 
nor had she neglected to practice the little 
expedient for making the most of everything 
which she had learned from her Aunt Lucy. 
In all the domestic arrangements which were 
left to her care she strove to exercise prudence 
and economy, though she did not knoAV how 
much necessity there might be for these vir- 
tues as her father had never spoken to her on 
this subject. 

One evening in midwinter Agnes was alone 
with her father in the family sitting-room, 
Carrie was in her mother’s room and Frank 
had gone out to skate. Agnes was busy with 
her sewing. Mr. Wilbur had sat for some 
time in his large arm-chair before the grate, 


204 


-A-GNES 'WILBUR; OR, 


apparently absorbed in thought. At last he 
looked up suddenly, and said abruptly, 

“ How wonderfully well you manage every- 
thing, Agnes.” 

She looked up in surprise. Mr. Wilbur 
had been a very silent observer of all that 
had passed in the house since her return. She 
had often thought that he hardly noted the 
efforts she Avas making for the comfort of the 
family, and this thought had more than once 
produced a feeling of discouragement. 

“ I am glad you think so,” she said. “ I 
try to do the best I can, though I know very 
well that I cannot do like Margaret.” 

“You do a great deal better than Mar- 
garet.” 

“How can that be?” 

“ I have not spoken hastily. What I have 
said is certainly true in one very important 
particular. Margaret did A^ery AA^ell for us in 
J^eAV York, but she Avas too extravagant for 
our present means. If she had remained six 
months longer I should have been involved 


A DA.XJ&IITER.’S IN'ELUEN’CE. 205 

in serious difficulties. It is not easy for a man 
who has for years been accustomed to a large 
income suddenly to reduce his expenses within 
the limits of a very small one. I tried to do 
tliis, but at the end of the first six months I 
found, much to my annoyance, that my ex- 
penses had considerably exceeded my income. 
Yesterday I reckoned up my expenses for the 
last six months and was surprised and grati- 
fied to find that they were entirely within my 
means. I have indeed studied retrenchment, 
yet it is but justice to you to say that this 
result is in a great degree owing to the pru- 
dence and economy with which you have 
managed all household expenses. You con- 
stantly remind me of your Aunt Lucy. I 
think you are very much like her. 

Agnes looked, as she felt, very much grati- 
fied. 

“ I have tried to be economical,” she said, 
“ but I did not know that economy was so 
necessary. 'Why did you not tell me of 
this?” 

IS 


206 


A-CfNES WILBXJR,. 


“For two reasons. In the first place, I 
did not wish to increase your cares and per- 
plexities, and, in the second place, I soon 
found that you were doing very Avell without 
any such hint, though I did not, until yester- 
day, fully understand how great a change you 
had made.” 

“ I think I might save some more if I 
should try,” said Agnes. 

“ It is not necessary. Our business is in- 
creasing, and my income will be larger next 
year than it has been this.” 

Agnes retired to her room that night with 
a light and happy heart. Her father’s com- 
mendation was as grateful as it had been un- 
expected. It was a great pleasure to her to 
know that she had been of real service to him 
and had helped to save him from fresh pecu- 
niary embarrassments. 

She was grateful to her heavenly Father 
for opening this Avell of comfort, and permit- 
ting her to see the reward of a diligent dis- 
charge of humble duties. 


XXI. 

A TESTIMONY FOE lESFS. 

M onths passed with few changes, yet 
scattering in their flight both pleasures 
and trials. Each Sabbath as Agnes listened 
to her faithful and beloved pastor, she felt 
that she was indeed gathering manna in the 
wilderness, and for this blessing she was deeply 
grateful. She also enjoyed much in the society 
of Mr. and Mrs. Owen, and in the circle of 
Christian friends to whom they had introduced 
her. Often too, her heart was refreshed by 
letters from Woodville, and from Cousin 
Walter. 

Yet Agnes had many discouragements to 
contend with. The sick room had its trials 
for the nurse, as well as for the invalid. Mrs. 
Wilbur was on the whole well pleased with 

207 


208 


WILBUR; OR, 


the services rendered by Agnes and always 
preferred to be waited upon by her than by 
Carrie, but like many invalids she was not 
unfrequently fretful and hard to please. 

Carrie, too, was selfish and indolent. She 
saw that everything prospered under her sis- 
ter’s management, and was well contented to 
leave all to her, seldom manifesting any 
disposition to share either her cares or labors. 
Neglectful of her responsibilities as the eldest 
daughter, she lived much the same life of ease 
and self-indulgence she had done in more pros- 
perous days. Frank also was often thought- 
less and exacting. Finding that Agnes was 
ever ready to please and gratify him, he was 
too frequently more mindful of his own pleas- 
ures than of her convenience. 

Agnes could not but' feel these things, yet 
slie had a trial of her faith and patience far 
more severe than any or all of these. She 
felt that in her father’s family she was still 
walking alone, in ‘Hhe narrow way.” Not 
one of those she most tenderly loved was by 


A. r)A.UC3-IIXEIi,’S IlSrFEXJElSrCE. 209 


her side. She knew that she was daily doing 
much to supply the bodily wants and promote 
the domestic comfort of these dear ones, but 
what was she doing to promote the welfare of 
their precious, immortal souls ? The answer 
to that question was often unsatisfactory. 

She did indeed strive to exert an influence 
in that direction. She would read a chapter 
in the Bible to her mother when she was 
willing to listen. Frequently she would turn 
to one of the chapters which she had often read 
at Aunt Martha’s bedside, and when a favor- 
able opportunity occurred she would repeat 
the expressions of faith and love to which 
Aunt Martha had given utterance while lis- 
tening to those precious words. Sometimes 
INIrs. Wilbur seemed interested, especially 
when Agnes described the peace and joy 
which reigned in that sick room, and some- 
times she sighed heavily, as if contrasting with 
this her own cheerless experience. 

With her sister, she could take more 
freedom. When Carrie spoke bitterly, as she 
18 * 


210 


WILBUR; OR, 


often did, of their changed circumstances, 
Agnes would talk of the love of God in send- 
ing trials, and urge her, earnestly and tenderly, 
to seek an enduring inheritance. Her merr}’^, 
thoughtless brother was also an object of 
tender solicitude, and she sought for opportu- 
nities to impress upon him a sense of his 
obligations. For her father she felt much. 
IIow could she approach him ? was a question 
she had often asked, but had not yet answered. 
Kearly a year had passed when she began to 
observe a change in him. He was more grave 
and silent than usual, and she thought he 
looked troubled and unhappy. She watched 
him for weeks until she felt sure this was no 
fancy of hers. At last she resolved to make 
an etfort to find out the cause. 

“You look very sober, papa,” she said one 
day, “I am sure something is the matter. 
Will you not tell me all about it?” 

“ I have nothing to tell,” he said, with a 
forced smile. 

“ I am sure something is wrong. Are we 


A. r>^XJ&IITER,’S UsTFLXJENCE. 211 

spending money faster than you ean earn it?” 
said Agnes, following the direction her suspi- 
cions had taken. “Don’t be afraid to tell me, 
if it is so, for I can be more.economical, if it 
is necessary.” 

“ It is not necessary, my child. There is 
nothing wrong there. Our expenses do not 
exceed our income. The balance will be on 
the right side this year. I am only troubled 
for you.” 

“ For me, father?” 

“Yes, for you. I cannot bear that you 
should have so much care, and so much to do 
when you ought to be enjoying life.” 

“I am enjoying life, father. Do not be 
anxious on my account.” 

“ Carrie is continually fretting because 
things are not as they once were. I did not 
use to think that you were so different from 
her. I do not see how it is that you bear the 
trial so well. It is indeed a very different lot 
from that which I had marked out for my 
daughters.” 


212 


AGNES WIEBUIt; OR, 


I know it is, dear father. You are very 
kind and would give us every indulgence if 
you could. But our heavenly Father has 
appointed our lot, and he is wiser and kinder 
than any earthly parent. It helps us to bear 
everything when we can see and feel that we 
are just where he would have us be, and are 
doing the work he has appointed ns to do.” 

“ Is this what helps you so in your daily 
cares? 

“Yes, father, I think I am the better for 
tliis discipline, and I am sure that it was sent 
on purpose to do me good.” 

“ Religion must be worth having if it will 
do for one what it seems to have done for you, 
my child,” said Mr. Wilbur, a tear moistening 
his eye as he spoke. 

Agnes saw the tear, and it gave her courage 
to speak. 

“Dear father,” she said, “I cannot find 
words to tell you what Jesus is to me. He 
helps me to bear every trial and perform every 
duty. What could I ever do without him? 


-A. D^UGHITER-’S IT^FLUENCE. 213 


He is my all. He is the light and joy of my 
life. Dear father if you only — ” 

“ That will do, my child, I know all you 
would say,” said her father, as he turned from 
her abrujitly and left the room. 

He left Agnes troubled and disappointed. 
She had often thought of Aunt Martha’s ad- 
vice and had tried to follow it. She had tried 
to let her light shine by the earnest and cheer- 
ful discharge of every duty. But she also 
remembered what that faithful Christian 
friend had said to her about the value of a 
word in season. She had been watching, 
waiting and hoping for an opportunity to 
speak such a word. When she saw that her 
father’s heart was moved by some tender emo- 
tion, she hoped that opportunity had come; 
but she had been cut short almost in the com- 
mencement, and had not been allowed to ex- 
press the warm feelings and strong desires 
which were struggling for utterance. 

Ao-nes was troubled and distressed. She 
did not know how to understand her father. 


214 


AGNES WILBUR. 


He had evidently been unwilling that she 
should say more, yet he did not seem dis- 
pleased. She was discouraged by what she 
regarded as the entire failure of this first 
effort. 

Agnes did not know that for months she 
had been to her father a living epistle, which 
he had read with increased attention as time 
passed on. She did not know that the unfin- 
ished sentence was even then speaking to his 
heart more powerfully than if she had said 
all that she intended. She did not know 
what had been the effect of that brief testi- 
mony of personal experience which she had 
given in such simple, artless and earnest lan- 
guage. She had huml)ly sought to do her 
duty, and God was blessing the effort, even 
while she was mourning over it as unsuccess- 
ful. The patient laborer will ever find that 
it is safe to leave results with God. 


XXII. 

^ FAM1I.Y AFTAJt EMECTED, 

M e. Wilbur and most of his family were 
half-day worshippers in the house of 
God. Agnes usually went to church in tire 
afternoon alone. Sometimes she persuaded 
Carrie or Frank to aecompany her, but this 
was seldom. 

The next Sabbath after the conversation 
with her father which had been so abruptly 
broken off, Agnes met him in the hall as she 
descended the stairs dressed for the afternoon 
service. 

“I will go “with you this afternoon, my 
daughter.” 

Agnes was greatly surprised and pleased. 

“ I shall be so glad to have your company,” 
she said, warmly. 


215 


216 


A&NES WILBUR.; OR, 


A^nes saw that her father listened atten- 
tively to Mr. Owen’s sermon that afternoon, 
but he made no observation as they returned 
home together. She watched her father Avith 
anxious solicitude that week, but he appeared 
much as he had for several Aveeks past, perhaps 
a little graver and more silent. 

wish you to go Avith us to church this 
afternoon,” said Mr. "Wilbur to Frank the 
next Sabbath, as the family were returning 
together from morning service. 

Frank kncAV from his father’s manner of 
speaking that this Avish was a command. As 
he had been trained to habits of prompt obedi- 
ence, he made no objection, though he did not 
look pleased. 

“Is Carrie going too?” he asked after a 
moment’s silence. 

“ I do not knoAv,” said his father. “ I should 
be pleased to have her.” 

“It is very tiresome attending church in 
the afternoon this Avarm Aveather,” remarked 
Carrie. 


A. X)A.XJGHiTER,’S 217 

“I am sorry you think so,” Mr. Wilbur 
replied, in a tone which seemed to Agnes one 
of mingled sorrow and self-reproach. 

“ I wish you would go with us, to please 
father,” said Agnes to Carrie, when they were 
alone in their room. 

“ Why, what does he care about it ?” 

“ I am sure he does care about it. Did you 
not observe how sober he looked when you 
expressed your unwillingness to go ?” 

Carrie had not observed it. She did not 
always note the effect of her words and 
acts. 

“ I don’t know why he should be so troubled 
about it,” said Carrie. “ He has not brought 
us up to care much about these things.” 

“ It may be that he now begins to regret it. 
I wish you would respect his wish, at this time, 
especially, for I feel so sure it will please him.” 

“ If you think so, I will go,” said Carrie, 
carelessly. 

The sermon that afternoon was from the 
words of Joshua, “ As for me and my house 
19 


218 


AGNES AA’IEBUE; OE, 


we will serve the Lord.” It was a tender 
and earnest appeal in behalf of personal and 
family religion. Agnes felt that it was timely 
and appropriate, and lifted up her heart in 
thankfulness to God that he had inclined her 
father to be present, instead of absenting him- 
self as was his usual custom. 

As the sun of that long, quiet summer 
Sabbath was setting Agnes entered the sitting- 
room. She found her parents there. Mrs. 
Wilbur’s health was so much improved that 
she was able to leave her room and spend a 
part of the day with her family. She was 
now reclining upon the sofa, while Mr. AVilbur 
sat by the table before an open Bible. He 
looked up as Agnes entered. 

“Do you know where Carrie and Frank 
are ?” he asked. 

“Carrie is in our room, and Frank is in 
the back portico with Mary.” 

“AVill you ask them to come in? You 
may ask Mary, also.” 

Agnes left the room to execute this com- 


A. DA.TjGmTEPi’s i:!srFXiXJEasrcii:. 219 


mission with a throbbing heart, hoping and 
expecting she hardly 'knew what. 

Frank and Mary came in immediately and 
Carrie a few minutes after. 

“ Can you tell me where the text was this 
afternoon?” inquired Mr. AVilbur of Frank 
when all were seated. 

“ It was the last of the fifteenth verse of 
the twenty-fourth chapter of Joshua,” said 
Frank, who had noted these particulars that 
he might have an answer ready for Agnes, 
should she ask him the same question, as she 
often did. 

“ I will now read that chapter,” said Mr. 
Wilbur, as he turned again to the open page 
before him. 

Carrie and Frank exchanged significant 
glances, Mrs. AVilbur’s countenance expressed 
surprise and curiosity, while Agnes watched 
her father’s every movement with deej) emo- 
tion. 

After reading the chapter and closing the 
book, Mr. AVilbur said, “ I wish, in a few 


220 


^g:nes ■VVILBUE.; ok. 


brief words, to speak of wliat I have been, 
and of what I now hope and resolve to be. 
I would acknowledge, with deep sorrow and 
repentance, that I have not been the husband 
and father I should have been. I have not 
served God with my whole heart, and honored 
him in my family. In regard to the future I 
can best express what I now hope and resolve 
in the words of the text this afternoon, ^As 
for me and my house we will serve the Lord.’ 
Let us now kneel and pray that God will 
bless this resolution, for without his blessing 
it will be of no avail.” 

The prayer that followed was short and 
simple, but very touching in its humble con- 
fession of past sins, and its earnest pleadings 
for mercy and for grace to help in present and 
future need, and before it was ended there was 
not a diy eye in that room. 

Agnes was quite overcome, and retired to 
her own room, there to give vent to her emo- 
tions in tears and prayers. She had thought 
much of her father the past week. After she 


^ DAXTO-HTEH’S IT^IT'LXJET^CE. 221 

found that his brow was not clouded by pecu- 
niary embarrassments, as she had suspected, 
she began to hope that his mind might be 
occupied with higher interests, but even this 
hope, faint and indefinite as it was, she had 
hardly dared to cherish, lest it should bring 
disappointment: but now she had just wit- 
nessed so much more than she had dared to 
expect or hope. She had indeed often and 
earnestly prayed for this very thing, but now, 
when she felt how unprepared she was for the 
blessing, and how she had been overcome by 
its suddenness and fullness, she began to doubt 
if she had ever truly prayed for it in faith. 
How weak and feeble had been her prayers, 
how mighty the power and grace of her Lord 
and Eedeemer. 

Half an hour later, when Agnes returned 
to the sitting-room, she found her father alone. 
Going up to him and putting both hands in 
his, she said, 

“ Dear father, I cannot tell you how happy 
you have made me. God has promised to 
19 * 


222 


uf^GNES WILBUR; OR, 


bless the families that call upon his name, and 
I do believe that he will now bless us.” 

“ I hope so, my dear child,” said Mr. Wil- 
bur with emotion. 

“ Is it Mr. Owen’s preaching that has led 
to this change in your views and feelings ?” 
Agnes now ventured to inquire. 

“ No, my daughter, it is your preaching.” 

“My preaching! oh father! I am sure I 
never preached to you.” 

“ Yes, you have. You have been preach- 
ing to me every day for the last year. When 
you were in Woodville you wrote to us 
frankly how you hoped that you had there 
found a priceless treasure. I must confess 
that I read the statement with much incredu- 
lity, but after your return I watched you 
closely. I saw how patiently you bore all the 
unpleasant things conneeted with the change 
in our eircumstances. I saw you assume cares 
and perform labors which I knew must be 
very irksome to one of your age, trained as 
you had been. I saw you taking the plaee of 


A. JDAUGHTER’S INFI^XJEN-CE. 223 

mother and elder sister in the family, con- 
stantly denying yourself to promote the com- 
fort and welfare of each and all, and yet 
contented, cheerful, and even happy. I felt 
that you were different from what you used to 
be, that religion was the cause, and that the 
thing which could bring such a change about 
must indeed be of priceless value. 

“ At first I only looked on with surprise, 
approval and admiration, but after a time I 
began to make a personal application of the 
subject. When I thought of life’s uncertain- 
ties and vicissitudes and of the great change 
which we must all soon meet, I felt that every 
one who did not possess this treasure was 
indeed poor, blind and wretched. This I felt 
to be my own case, and I resolved not to rest 
until I had found for myself this pearl of 
great price. You must have thought me cold 
and unfeeling when I turned from you so ab- 
ruptly the other day. It was indeed far 
otherwise. I was so much affected by your 
simple, earnest testimony, that I felt sure I 


224 


A-GNES WILBUR; OR, 


should break down if I continued to listen to 
you, and I was too proud for that. 

“ Now you can understand what I meant 
when I said that you had preached to me 
every day for the last year. I would grate- 
fully acknowledge the benefit I have derived 
from Mr. Owen’s preaching. It has not been 
small. But I doubt if I had ever given to it 
a listening ear, had it not been for the daily 
preaching of your example, as I silently 
watched you in the humble, patient discharge 
of daily duties. God has given me the great 
blessing of a pious daughter, and it has, I 
trust, pleased him to make this blessing the 
instrument of leading me to himself.” 

Much more was said which cannot here be 
repeated. It was a very precious interview 
which was never forgotten by either father or 
daughter. There were now two of them to 
walk in the same path, to shed around them 
the light of a Christian example, and to hope, 
labor and pray for those who were not walk- 
ing with them. 


A. DAUGHTER’S INEEUEHCE. 225 

171160 Agnes retired to her room after this 
conversation with her father, the joy and 
gratitude which filled her heart were mingled 
with a sense of weakness and unworthiuess 
such as she had never felt before. She had 
only striven with many shortcomings and im- 
perfections to do her duty. How great must 
be His love and power who could make use of 
such weak instruments to accomplish his gra- 
cious purpose. 

The thoughts of Agnes turned back to 
IVoodville, and especially to Aunt Martha’s 
sick room, where she had listened to those 
wise and kind words of counsel which had 
first led her to see the work God had given 
her to do. She remembered the reluctance 
with wliich she had at first entered upon this 
work, as something far below her hopes and 
aspirations. How pleasant it would then be to 
sit down by the bedside of this faithful Chris- 
tian friend, and tell her how God had taught her 
that any labor done for Christ’s sake is noble 
for that very cause, and how he had blessed her 


226 


^GISTES -WILBXJR,. 


in the patient discharge of her humble duties. 
How she would like to tell this friend, of tlie 
scenes which had that day taken place, of the 
family altar which had been erected, and of the 
father who had been given to her to walk 
with her in the way of life. 

Such were the thoughts of Agnes. She 
knew not that the bed was unoccupied and 
the room vacant; that two days before the 
gentle, patient spirit which had so long dwelt 
there had taken its flight for glory. Yet who 
shall say that the spirit of ^he departed one 
was not present in that hour with the youth- 
ful disciple, rejoicing in her joy, and in the 
fruit of those words of Christian counsel 
which had been spoken on that bed of suffer- 
ing? 


XXIII. 

NEW DUTIES AND ENCOUEAGEMENTS. 

T he next winter the family cirele was re- 
duced by the absence of two of its 
members. A former friend of Mr. Wilbur 
offered Frank a place in his store, which offer 
was thankfully accepted. About, a month 
after Frank left for New York, Carrie received 
an invitation from some of her old friends in 
that city to spend the winter with them. 
Carrie, eager to return to the old life of gay 
pleasures, was very desirous to accept this 
invitation. On some accounts Mr. Wilbur 
preferred that she should decline it, yet on the 
whole he did not think it best to oppose his 
daughter’s wishes. 

The last few months had brought some 
disappointments to Agnes. In the joy and 

227 


228 


AGNES WIEBER; OB, 


delight of her soul when her father came out 
on the Lord’s side, she believed that all the 
family would soon follow in his steps; but 
this hope had not been realized. There seemed 
to be no room in Carrie’s heart for anything 
but this world, and she would seldom allow 
Agnes to speak to her of things relating to the 
world beyond. Frank, too, was so careless and 
light-hearted that it seemed as if no serious 
thought could remain in his mind long enough 
to leave a permanent impression. Agnes often 
feared that she had failed to exert any influ- 
ence for good on the two she had most hoped 
to benefit, and often thought of them in their 
absence with anxious solicitude. The friends 
whose invitation her sister had accepted were 
gay, worldly people. Would not Carrie there 
become more worldly and pleasure-loving? 
and could she hope that her gay, thoughtless 
brother would resist the many temptations to 
which he would be exposed ? 

Agnes had anticipated a winter of unusual 
quiet and leisure, but, as often happens, much 


A r»VX7GmTER,’S INFI^XJET^CE. 229 

of it was occupied with duties and cares 
which had formed no part of her programme. 

About a month after Carrie left, Mary, who 
still remained with them, was taken sick. 
The physician who was called in told them 
that she would probably have a severe illness 
of some weeks’ continuance. The question 
now was, what should be done? Agnes at 
once proposed to keep Mary, saying that she 
would do all she could for her. Mr. Wilbur 
at first objected. 

“ I fear,” he said, “that it will be too much 
for you to have the care of Mary and the 
training of a new girl, who may be as igno- 
rant as she was on her fiist coming to live 
with us.” 

“ I think I can do it,” said Agnes. “ It 
will be well for me to have a good deal to 
occupy my mind now Carrie and Frank are 
gone. I shall not miss them so much.” 

Still Mr. Wilbur did not seem convinced. 

“ Mary has really no where to go,” pleaded 
Agnes. “She has only one brother, and he 
20 


230 


AGIS-ES WILBUR; OR, 


is miserably poor, with a large family. She 
could not be comfortable there, even if they 
were willing to take her in. I think she is 
really attached to us, and tries to serve us 
fiithfully, and I should like to see her through 
this sickness. Besides, dear father, you know 
there is a great deal of work to be done in 
this world, and as I cannot go far to find it, 
there is so much the more need that I should 
do all that is brought to our very door, or 
rather within our doors.” 

“ Perhaps you are right,” said her father. 
‘‘I am sure your motive is good, and I only 
hope that it may not prove too much for 
you.” 

Mr. AYilbur met with less difficulty than he 
expected in finding some one to take Mary’s 
place. The next day he heard of a very good 
girl who was disengaged for two or three 
months, and would come to them for that 
time. This was a great relief to Agnes, es- 
jvecially as Mary grew worse rapidly and 
required much care and nursing. She devoted 


A IDAXJGmTER’S INFLXJEN-CE. 231 

herself to this new and somewhat trying duty 
with great patience and assiduity. 

Those who would sow seed for a spiritual 
harvest must work in faith and hope, and be 
content to labor and wait. Yet God often 
allows the laborer to gather some sheaves as 
an earnest of the future harvest. It was thus 
that he dealt with Agnes. 

One night about three weeks after Mary 
was taken ill, Agnes sat down, after the labors 
of the day were over, more than usually weary 
and dispirited. She was alone. Her mother 
had retired to rest, and her father had not yet 
come in from the store, though it was after 
the usual time. Soon the door opened. The 
clerk came in and handed her two letters. 

“I have just taken these from the office,” 
he said. “ As your father has some writing 
to do, and will not be home for an hour or 
two, he thought you would want them for 
company.” 

The letters were from Carrie and Frank. 
Agnes opened Frank’s first. As his letters 


232 


A. ONES WILBUR; OR, 


were usually very short, she thought that she 
would dispatch that, and devote the remainder 
of the time to Carrie’s longer epistle. It ran 
thus : 

‘‘ Dear Aggie : I am going to write you 
to-night, because I have thought so much 
about you all day, and in fact, ever since this 
time last night. Shall I tell you how it all 
happened ? 

“ Two of the clerks in the next store called 
on me last night to ask me to go with them 

to well, never mind where. It was not a 

place that you would wish me to visit. They 
held on to a fellow so tight, that I was just 
going to say, yes, when somehow, the thought 
of you came right into my mind, and it 
seemed as if I could hear you say, ‘You won’t 
go, Frank, will you?’ and I answered right 
off — to myself, I mean — ‘ No I won’t. I will 
do as much as that for the best sister in the 
world.’ I told the fellows, no, right square 
off and stuck to it. 


A. IDAXTCmTER’S IN-EEX7E]SrCE. 233 

“ If you had been like Ned Potter’s sister, 
I don’t believe the thought of you would 
have stopped me. By the way, I wonder 
what she would say if she knew how Ned has 
been going on since he came here. Wouldn’t 
she lecture him ! But it would not do a bit 
of good. He has had too much of that al- 
ready. I have been to Ned’s house enough 
to know how things go on there. It was 
very seldom that his sister would take the 
trouble to please him, though she would lec- 
ture him all the day long. I, too, got one 
from you now and then, or what I used to 
call a lecture, but then I got something I 
liked a great deal better much oftener. How 
often you helped me out about my plays. 
When Ned went to his sister for any such 
thing, she would call it all stuff and nonsense. 
It was easier to say that than it was to help 
him. I dare say I made you a great deal of 
trouble. I have often wondered how you 
could have so much patience. No doubt you 
have sometimes thought that I was not very 
20 * 


234 


>VGNES WILBUR,; OR, 


grateful. But you see that I have not for- 
gotten these things. I thought of them last 
night. I mean to think of them every time 
I am tempted to do anything that will trouble 
you. I don’t mean you shall ever be ashamed 
of me. I can’t think of anything more to 
say to-night. I expect a holiday and a jolly 
time some day next week. I will write you 
about it in my next.” 

This letter gave Agnes much pleasure. It 
was indeed encouraging to know that she had 
acquired such an influence over Frank that the 
thought of her was a shield to him in the 
hour of temptation; and that those patient 
acts of kindness which had sometimes cost 
her no small degree of self-denial, had formed 
a strong link, binding very closely to her the 
heart of her young brother. 

Agnes lingered over this letter longer than 
she had expected, but at last she laid it aside, 
and took up the other. The first three pages 
of Carrie’s letter were occupied with a descrip- 


A. DAUGHTER’S INEEUENCE. 235 

tion of gay parties and scenes of amusement, 
given much in the writer’s usual style, but the 
rest was very different from any of her former 
letters. 

“ You will see from what I have written,” 
continued Carrie, “ that I am in the midst of 
old scenes and former pleasures. I enjoy it, 
but shall I own that I do not enjoy it as much 
as I expected. I thought that I should be 
perfectly happy if I could get back here, but 
I am not. My friends are very kind, and I 
receive many flattering attentions, yet I am 
not as happy as I used to be when we lived 
here. Perhaps I ought not to say that, for I 
begin to doubt if I ever was very happy. 
Shall I tell you what has led me to doubt it ? 
It is the thought of you. When I think of 
your daily routine of cares, labors, and simple 
pleasures, it seems to me like a very dull and 
mopish life ; yet I am sure that you find en- 
joyment in it. In fact I have no doubt that 
you are happier this winter than I, though I 
am where I have so much wished to be. 


236 


AGNES 'WIEBUR; OR, 


“I don’t know what makes me write in 
this strain. Certainly I had no thought of 
saying anything of the kind when I first took 
up my pen. You will say that I am more 
frank in my absence than when I was with 
you. That is true. I then had many thoughts 
and feelings which I never owned to you. I 
believe that you have found something that 
gives you real happiness, a soul-satisfying 
kind which I may well covet. I begin to 
doubt if the pleasures of this fleeting world 
can satisfy the wants of an immortal soul. 
When I turn my back again on these gay 
scenes and return to my quiet country home, 
I mean to see if I too cannot find this source 
of happiness.” 

Agnes read this letter with surprise, thank- 
fulness and hope. She was surprised, for she 
did not suppose that Carrie would own all 
that she had there admitted. She was thank- 
ful for these rays of light, and encouraged to 
hope that the day might soon dawn. She had 
prayed and felt much for Carrie, and had 


A. DA.XJa-HTER,’S I3SrFJL.TJEN-CE. 237 

spoken words of earnest and tender entreaty, 
whenever a favorable opportunity presented 
itself. But all had seemed in vain, and many 
times Agnes had feared that she was failing to 
exert any good influence upon this dear sister. 
That letter was a refutation of her fears, and 
as such was very precious. 

When her father came in, both letters were 
read to him, and together they talked of the 
loved and absent ones, and prayed that he who 
had felt the influence of fraternal love might 
open his heart to the love of God, which alone 
can secure the soul from evil ; and that Carrie 
might increasingly feel her need of the heav- 
enly treasure, and not defer seeking it until a 
more convenient season. 

Agnes had expressed to her father the be- 
lief that Mary was becoming attached to the 
family. This was true. It was especially true 
toward Agnes herself. When she returned, 
Mary was becoming dissatisfied and had made 
up her mind to leave in a few days, but she 
got along so well with her young mistress that 


238 


AGNES WILBUR; OR, 


she soon gave up all thoughts of leaving. 
She liked Agnes from the first, and this liking 
grew into a warmer and more permanent 
sentiment. 

The attachment thus formed was greatly- 
strengthened during Mary’s illness. When 
she saw how patiently and kindly Agnes 
nursed and cared for her, even when herself 
very weary, her heart was touched, and her 
expressions of gratitude were very warm. 
“I shall not forget this,” she would say, “if 
I ever get well, I shall never think that I can 
do too much for you.” 

Noble hearts always value the grateful es- 
teem of those whom they seek to benefit, and 
Agnes did not undervalue Mary’s gratitude, 
but she had a reward she prized yet more 
when her patient began to recover. Mary’s 
heart was made tender by her illness and she 
would listen with earnest attention wliile 
Agues read from the Holy Word, or spoke to 
her of Him who would lead her to a world 
where there is neither sickness nor pain, if 


A. r>A.XJG-IIXER.’S ITsTEETJElSrCE. 239 

she would love, trust and obey him, and her 
kind nurse hoped that on this bed of sickness 
and pain seed might be sown which would 
spring up and bear fruit unto eternal life. 

Mary’s recovery relieved Agnes of much 
care and anxiety, and gave more time for her 
visits to the poor and afflicted in the neigh- 
borhood, and for the Sabbath-school class of 
which she had become the teacher. 

She had also more time to devote to her 
mother, who was still an invalid, though rap- 
idly gaining strength. For many years Mrs. 
Wilbur’s health had been very delicate. Un- 
sustained by Christian principles and consola- 
tions, she had been quite overwhelmed by the 
calamity which had so suddenly deprived 
them of their wealth and their luxurious home. 
Mind and body had been about equally af- 
fected. Both were now sloAvly recovering 
from the blow. The mind was arousing from 
the torpor of sorrow and despair, and Mrs. 
Wilbur began to take an increasing interest in 
what was passing around her. 


^40 


-A^G^NES WILBUE. 


Agnes was much pleased to see these signs 
of improvement. She was also gratified by 
many little tokens which showed that she was 
daily becoming dearer to her mother and more 
indispensable to her happiness. That winter 
Mrs. AVilbur had showed an appreciation of 
the cares and labors of Agnes never before 
manifested. 

“ We must see that you have an easier time 
next summer,” she had said, more than once. 

I hope my health will be much improved 
by that lime, and Carrie will be at home, and 
together we must relieve you of a part of the 
burden.” 


XXIV. 

A NEW 8PHEEE. 

I N the spring Carrie and Frank were both 
at home again. Carrie returned the latter 
part of April and her brother about a month 
later. An unexpected change had deprived 
Frank of his situation. His father did not 
think it best for him to seek another place 
until the autumn, so the family were all to- 
gether once more. 

A few weeks after Frank’s return, Agnes 
received a letter from Walter, informing her 
that he intended to spend a part of the coming 
vacation with them. This was good news, as 
she very much wished to see her cousin. He 
had planned such a visit for the previous year, 
but had not been able to carry it out, which 
had been a great disappointment to Agnes. 

21 , 241 


242 


AG^jSTES WILBXJR-; OR., 


The letter also contained another piece of 
intelligence. Walter’s friend, Alfred Reed, 
was to accompany him, and become the guest 
of Mr. Owen, who had often invited him to 
make them such a visit. Agnes was glad of 
this. Walter had so often spoken and written 
of this friend that she wished very much to 
see him. 

Carrie and Frank were not less delighted 
than Agnes herself. They were indeed be- 
coming attached to their country home, yet 
they often complained of its dull monotony, 
and they hailed the visit of the two friends as 
likely to afford a pleasing change. 

“Won’t it be jolly!” said Frank. “Mr. 
Owen need not think that he is going to mo- 
nopolize Walter’s friend. We will have him 
here at least half the time.” 

At the appointed day the college friends 
arrived. . Alfred Reed became the’ guest of 
Mr. Owen, though he spent much of his time 
with Walter and his cousins. Agnes was not 
disappointed in him. She soon saw that 


^ D^UGHITER’S UsTEI^XJKNCE. 243 

he and TYalter were indeed kindred spirits, 
and was not surprised at the close friendship 
which had sprung up between them. After 
some days of free intercourse she came to the 
decision that AValter’s friend was not at all 
inferior to himself, which was a great deal for 
Agnes to admit, as her cousin had long stood 
very high in her estimation. 

The visit of the young students seemed 
short, although it extended beyond the time 
at first proposed. They lingered as long as 
they could, but were at last obliged to declare 
that they must absolutely take their leave on 
the morning of the following day, and it was 
arranged that Frank should take them to the 
nearest station, about three miles distant. 

The next morning, after bidding farewell 
to his friends at the parsonage, Alfred Reed 
walked over to join Walter at his uncle’s. 

Seizing a moment when he was left alone 
with Agnes, he came to her side and said, 
“I have enjoyed this visit very much. May I 
come again ?” 


244 


"VVILBXJR.; OR., 


Agnes bluslied slightly as she replied, 
“A'ou must ask Mr. Owen.” The tone was 
playful but not indifferent. 

“Mr. Owen has given me a very cordial 
invitation to repeat my visit, but I doubt if I 
ever get to this place again unless you give 
me leave. What say you? May I come?” 

There was no mistaking the look, tone and 
manner, and the eyes of Agnes drooped and 
her cheeks crimsoned as she gave an affirma- 
tive answer. 

Some one now entered the room and there 
was no opportunity to say more. Agnes, 
however, observed that before he left Alfred 
Reed drew her father aside for a few moments’ 
private conversation. 

After their visitors had left, and the sisters 
had watched them until they were out of 
sight, Carrie returned to the house, but Agnes 
sti’olled away by herself to a solitary place 
which was a favorite resort. She sat down on 
the fallen trunk of a tree, close by a little 
murmuring brook, to think of all that had 


A. DA.X7&HTEIl’S HSrEEXJETQ-CE. 245 


passed between herself and Alfred Reed that 
morning. 

The words had indeed been few, but Agnes 
knew and felt that they had comprehended 
much. He was coming again, and for what? 
The answer to that question caused her heart 
to thrill with new and strange emotions. 
Alfred Reed had long ago chosen his path in 
life. Now he was seeking one to walk by his 
side in that path, and her heart told her that 
she herself was the object of that choice. She 
well kncAV what was the path which he had 
chosen. It was the same as that selected 
by her Cousin Walter. 

Her thoughts flew back to the morning in 
the hay-field when Walter had spoken to her 
for the first time, of his life-work. She had 
at first listened with disapproval, yet even 
then she had caught some faint glimpses of 
the true honor and glory of that work. 

Her thoughts travelled yet farther back and 
recalled her own gay dreams of a still earlier 
period. Then she had revelled in the romance 


246 


WILBUR; OR, 


of a golden future ; heard the soft accents of 
love whispering words like those which had 
been addressed to her that morning. But 
with these airy castles she had ever pictured 
surroundings of wealth and luxury and splen- 
dor. How different those fondly cherished 
visions from the sober realities of the present 
moment. Did she regret the difference? Oh, 
no, for a glory and beauty then hidden from 
her eyes had since been revealed to her. 

With Alfred Reed, she well knew that no 
home of wealth, pride and luxury would ever 
be hers. He had spoken freely to her of his 
hopes, plans and purposes. She knew that it 
W’as his highest ambition to win souls to 
Christ. She knew that he would seek to labor, 
not where wealth and fame might be won, but 
where there were most sheaves to be gathered 
into the garner of his Lord. If she walked 
by his side, would it not be her life-w’ork to 
cheer him on his way, to share in every trial, 
self-denial and sacrifice, and even to urge him 
on to nobler thoughts, words and deeds ? 


A. D^TJCmTER’S INEETJETsTCE. 247 

Next she reviewed the past few years in the 
light that morning had shed upon them. It 
was indeed a new light. She saw how, in 
those years, she had been trained and disci- 
plined for the life that lay before her; how 
each trial, disappointment, care and labor had 
fitted her for this noble work. How wholly 
unfitted for it would she have been had these 
years been sj^ent in luxury, ease and self- 
indulgence. How wise and kind had been 
the Providence which had led her in a way 
she knew not. That way had sometimes 
seemed very hard and very dark. She re- 
membered how she had shrunk from entering 
it ; how its duties and labors had seemed to 
her arduous and trying, and yet at the same 
time lowly and insignificant ; but now she felt 
that all had been a needed training for a noble 
sphere of duty. She to*o had found her life- 
work, and it :^vas worthy of her highest am- 
bition. 

When Mr. Wilbur came home to dinner 
that day, he found Agnes sitting alone by a 


248 


A-GISTES WIEBTJR; OR, 


window. As he passed, he paused for a mo- 
ment to speak to her. 

“ Did Mr. Reed ask you if he might come 
again ?” he inquired. 

Agnes blushed deeply as she answered that 
he did. 

Mr. Wilbur closely scanned the flushed 
fiice. Perhaps he read there all he wanted 
to know, for he made no further inquiries. 

“ He asked me the same question,” he said, 
and I think I was very disinterested to tell 
him he might, when I know that if he comes 
he will rob me of one of the richest of my 
household treasures.” 

“ Oh, papa !” said Agnes, deprecatingly. 

“ Well, my dear, we will say no more about 
it now,” said her father. “If I shall lose 
you, I will try to comfort myself with the 
thought that my loss will be somebody’s gain, 
and perhaps a gain to many,”^he added in a 
thoughtful, serious tone. 

“ What do you think Mr. Reed said to me 
when I parted witli him at the station ?” said 


A. r)A.XJGPITER,’S IT«irELXJENCE. 249 

Frank, that night after tea, as he and Carrie 
and Agnes were together. 

The question was addressed to Carrie. 

“ I don’t know, I am sure,” said Carrie. 

“ He told me that he was coming again, and 
do you know I more tlian half suspect that I 
am to have a ministerial brother-in-law to 
keep me straight !” 

“ Well, you need some one badly enough to 
keep you straight,” said Carrie, laughing. 

“But only think what lectures a madcap 
like me will be likely to receive from such a 
relative !” Frank continued in a tone of mock 
distress. “ It makes me shudder to think of 
it. Do, Aggie, dear, reconsider the question 
for my sake, if you have any idea of giving 
this young man any encouragement !” 

A very deep blush was the only reply made 
by Agnes. It was all so new to her that she 
did not know how to bear raillery and could 
not as yet take it coolly. Carrie saw her em- 
barrassment and came to her relief. 

“Don’t tease Agnes,” she said. “Come 


250 


^GISTES WILBUR; OR, 


with me and help me train that rose bush. 
You promised to do it to-night.” 

Frank followed his sister from the room, 
much to the relief of Agnes. 

Alfred Reed did come again, not once, but 
many times. One day when he left he took 
Agnes Avith him to become the mistress of a 
neat parsonage in the place which was for the 
present to be his field of labor. It was hard 
to part with the loved ones, but before she 
left, Agnes was permitted to hope that each 
and all of them had become the humble 
disciples of Jesus, and that their hearts 
Avould be Avith her, and their prayers would 
aid her, in the great life-AVork which lay before 
her. 

When Agnes went to her neAV home, Mary 
Avent AAdth her. Since her sickness she had 
been most AA^armly attached to Agnes. Faith- 
ful and devoted she proved as great a blessing 
in the parsonage as Aunt Martha had been in 
the home at Woodville, relieving the pastor’s 
Avife of many cares, and thus greatly increasing 


A. D^UOHXER’S IN^ELUElSrCE. 251 

her usefulness among the people of her hus- 
band’s charge. 

In the midst of her active and useful life 
Agnes often looked back to the way in Avhicli 
she had been led. The conversation Avith her 
Cousin Walter about his life-work Avas never 
forgotten. How liad all her thoughts, feel- 
ings and purposes changed since that time. 
She Avas noAV in the midst of her life-AA'ork. 
Light from lieavcn shone upon it, and in that 
light she saw and felt that hei-s AA^as a glorious 
object, a grand ambition. 

Reader, have you a life-Avork? It must 
be so if you are one of Christ’s servants, for 
all his servants are, in one Avay or another, 
laborers in his vineyard. Do you knoAv Avhat 
your work is ? You need not go far to search 
for it. That, or the path Avhich leads to it, 
must lie at your very door. ]May you have 
grace to Avalk in this path Avith patience 
diligence, faith and love ! 


THE END. 


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